


The Storm Inside

by allonsys_girl



Series: No Rules [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Affection, Aftercare, Arguing, Bottom John, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Collars, Dom John Watson, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John Loves Sherlock, John-centric, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Marriage, Restraints, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sherlock Loves John, Slapping, Sub Sherlock Holmes, Top John Watson, Top Sherlock, Working it Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-15 23:46:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2247894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/pseuds/allonsys_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have been married for a bit less than a year, and they're happy, or so they think. Something's under the surface, though, something that's not letting them be as happy as they could be. John's got a lot to figure out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CaitlinFairchild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaitlinFairchild/gifts), [bittergreens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittergreens/gifts).



> This story is an established sub/dom relationship. It is very loving, and very caretaking, and entirely consensual. It IS still sub/dom, however, so please don't read if that isn't something you enjoy. Thanks!

Sherlock always solves the case. 

Except this time, he doesn't. 

Every time, the body count doesn't matter, the destruction the happens before, it's inconsequential. It's not that he doesn't care, as John accused him of so long ago, it's simply that he's realistic. He understands people _will_ die, but as long as he solves it, fixes it, makes sure the criminal gets his due, he can live with the fact that he can't possibly save everyone. 

He's never not solved it. Never not fixed it.

This time it's a serial killer. Five bodies in two months. Gruesome and disturbing. John -- brave, strong John - chokes and gags at the first body, turns away. He's silent and brooding when they get home, and Sherlock smoothes his hair and tells him it's alright, he'll find the bastard and this won't happen again.

Except it does. 

A sixth body, and a seventh. 

He can't find it, the key. The piece that always unlocks the puzzle. He's missing it. He's missing something crucial. Lestrade's patience begins to wear thin. John shouts at Greg to remember that Sherlock does this for free, that he's doing his best, leave him alone. Sherlock shouts at everyone to shut up, get out, let him think for god’s sake. John herds everyone out, shuts the door to Lestrade’s office with a snap, and stands outside with his arms crossed, not letting anyone in. 

Sherlock still can’t see it. It’s making him mental. He’s out of control. His brain hurts, his actual brain. He can feel his neurons, can feel his cerebral cortex thrumming with electricity. _Why_ isn’t anything connecting?

It’s been three weeks since Greg asked Sherlock to help. It’s never, ever taken him this long before. He thumps his head against the wall. Pain radiates down through his eye sockets, and it feels good. He does it again, harder. Braces his hands against the wall and pounds the top of his head into it as hard as he can. _Think, Sherlock, goddammit._

The door swings open. “Sherlock. What the hell are you doing?”

Sherlock turns to him, tears of pain and frustration trembling on his eyelashes. “I can’t, John. I can’t. I don’t know how to make this work.”

John breathes out hard through his nose and sets his jaw. “Right. That’s it. I’m taking you home.”

“No. No. I just need a minute. I can do this.” Flutterings of panic are starting in his chest. He has to stay here. He has to solve it. 

John shuts the door and locks it with a soft click. When he looks at Sherlock again, his eyes are both sympathetic and unyielding. “Sherlock. You are spinning out of control. You just bashed your head into the wall at least three times that I heard, and you’re frustrated and exhausted. You need to go home and have a break.”

“But John, I’m right there. I know it. It’s just --”  Sherlock tugs at his hair. He knows he’s feeling frantic, but it’s right. there. If only he could see it. 

“This is not a discussion.” John strides over to him and takes Sherlock’s chin in his hand, forces him to look down at him. “This is not good for you, and I am taking you home. We’ll deal with the case tomorrow.”

Sherlock swallows, his jaw caught in John’s strong hand, his wedding band hard and cool against Sherlock’s skin. He knows better than to argue, even as every cell in his body is telling him to stay here, don’t leave this room until he solves it, push himself until he can’t think about anything but this, and that's when the revelation will come, that's when he'll solve it -- he opens his mouth to say all that, but the only thing that comes out is, “Yes, John.”

John smiles indulgently, concern still swimming in his eyes. “That’s my good boy. Food, and rest, and bed. No arguments.”

“Yes, John.” A wash of something akin to calm settles over him, though he’s still shaking with tension and his head is pounding. John’s in control. John's right, John has to be right.

He's supposed to trust John. Implicitly. John won’t let him crash. 

John threads their fingers together and pulls Sherlock, now placidly following him, through the sea of desks and people to where Greg and Sally and several faceless, nameless policemen are standing round the coffee pot whispering to each other. 

“John?” Greg’s intimidated by John sometimes, and it shows. His voice wavers, just slightly. If Greg only knew the depths of control John's actually capable of. That thought isn't comfortable at the moment, though he doesn't know why.

“You’re pushing him too hard and he’s going to snap. I’m taking him home, and I don’t want a single text or call from any of you lot, understand? He needs a break. We’ll be in touch tomorrow.” Captain voice. Rough and firm, brooking no argument. 

“But --” Greg moves forward, and John’s hand is immediately up, cutting him off. 

“No. I’m not asking. I’m telling. He’s going home. He needs to rest. I’ll text you tomorrow. But I’m serious, Greg. If I get one text tonight, just one - we won’t be in tomorrow. I understand people’s lives are at stake, and I’m not at all unconcerned about that fact.” John squeezes Sherlock’s fingers tightly. “But _this_ person, this one right here, he’s my concern at the moment. He needs a night off. We’ll be in touch.”

John pulls Sherlock away from a sea of stunned eyes and open mouths. Sherlock’s already pliant, yielding, and just allows himself to be led from the room by the strength of John’s will. 

***

“Chicken salad.” 

“I don’t like mayonnaise.”  

“I know that. There’s no mayonnaise in it, love. Eat it.”

“Alright.” 

John sits down at the kitchen table across from Sherlock with his own sandwich, slathered in mayonnaise, and pushes a tumbler of ice water at Sherlock. “You’re dehydrated, Sherlock. Drink the water.”

Sherlock looks at him with wide eyes, purplish bags underneath, blinks and wordlessly downs the entire glass of water in one go. God, he’s a mess. John should never have allowed him to be pushed this hard, to push himself this hard, to get so frustrated and stuck. He should have put his foot down two days before.  

Sherlock takes a bite of sandwich, and chews slowly. Then he takes another and chews more rapidly, soon devouring it like he’s not eaten in days, which isn’t true because John won’t allow him to not eat for days anymore. Still, he must have been ravenously hungry. 

“Thinking burns calories. You know that.” John hands Sherlock a napkin, takes a bite of his own sandwich. “You’ve been working so hard, love. You must have burned thousands of calories today alone.”

“But I still haven’t solved it. God, what am I _missing_ , John?” He sighs loudly, runs his hands frenetically through his hair, making it stand on end. He looks like a mad scientist, wild eyes and electrified hair. Which, John thinks fondly, isn’t too far from the truth. 

“Shhh. You are not allowed to talk about the case. Or think about it. You need to rest, let your brain rest.” John sips his own water, watches his husband across the table. His _husband_. 

He twists his wedding band round his finger with his thumb, eyes falling on the fading scars on his forearm from where Sherlock had cut into him so many months ago. They haven’t revisited any blood play since then, somehow hasn’t seemed necessary. They understand how much they belong to each other; it doesn't need to be reinforced constantly.

“Yes, John.” Sherlock lets out a long breath. “Got any biscuits?”

“That’s my boy. Always need your sweets, don’t you?” John crosses the kitchen, pulls a half eaten pack of chocolate and caramel biscuits from the cupboard and sets it on the table, “Eat as many as you want while I’m washing up, and then I’m putting you to bed. You need to sleep.”

John can practically hear the gears turning in Sherlock’s head while he’s doing the dishes, and has one of those moments where he actually wishes he could control what goes on in Sherlock’s mind. He wishes he didn’t have those moments, where he imagines how beautiful it would be if Sherlock submitted to him entirely, never had a thought except the ones John put there, was obedient and compliant constantly. He doesn’t _actually_ want that, he would tire of it almost immediately - Sherlock’s stubbornness, his argumentative nature, watching Sherlock use that giant brain to tear a puzzle to pieces, solve a case, just play a board game on a quiet night at home, Sherlock's absurd sense of humour, his quick wit, his passion, the fiery burn of his deep emotions - that's why John fell in love with him. John loves Sherlock as he is - difficult, incessant, exhausting, clever, wonderful, and painfully sweet natured much of the time. He would never truly want Sherlock to subsume his personality. 

Just occasionally, though, the thought crosses John’s incredibly possessive mind that he does truly know what's best for Sherlock, and it would simplify both their lives if Sherlock would just stay in subspace all the time. Perfectly obedient. Ceaselessly deferential. It's a frighteningly appealing fantasy. John sets the last plate in the drying rack and shakes that thought from his mind. He has a real Sherlock right here who needs him.

“Sherlock, stop thinking about the case. You’re too tired to make any headway, you’re just making yourself mental.” John doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t have to.

“I can’t help it.” Sherlock mumbles through a mouth full of biscuit.

“You can, and you will. You’ll stop because I’m telling you to.” John hardens his voice just that much, enough to make Sherlock understand they are not on equal footing at the moment. 

“Yes, John. I’m sorry.”

“No need to be sorry, love.” While he is most definitely the dominant personality in this relationship, at least most of the time, John never wants Sherlock to fear him, to feel cowed or subjugated. “I’m just taking care of you, and you need to mind me. That's all. Are you going to mind me, Sherlock?”

“Yes.” 

“Alright, then. No need for apologies.”

He turns to where Sherlock is licking biscuit crumbs from his fingers like a five year old. Affection surges through and around him, affection so profound that it physically aches. This man whose IQ is unmeasurable, who wears £1000 suits and spends hours making sure his hair looks perfect - he is also the man who scrounges round the flat in dirty dressing gowns and twenty year old pyjamas, who curls like a cat between John’s legs just so John will pet his hair and call him baby, and who is currently licking melted chocolate off his thumb.

John is _startlingly_ in love with him, so much so that after all this time it still shocks him.

“You’re devastatingly charming, you know that? You ridiculous creature.” John swoops down and places a kiss between Sherlock’s raised eyebrows. "You know that's a compliment, sweetheart."

Sherlock hums happily. “I know. You say it all the time.” He reaches up with his left hand and splays his fingers against John's stomach, sinking forward into the press of John's mouth.

"My sweet boy." John brushes tender fingers through Sherlock's hair as he straightens up. "Not hungry anymore?"

Sherlock shakes his head into the soft cotton of John's worn red shirt, his nose rubbing against the buttons.

"Good. Alright then, now it's time for you to sleep." The tenderness suffused through John in these moments, when Sherlock is so vulnerable, so dependent on him, is crushing. He would do absolutely anything for this mad genius, who allows John access to the most fragile parts of his psyche. Being allowed this control over Sherlock, to place him in this space of complete submission, it’s the most profound act of love John has ever been shown. By anyone. 

John takes Sherlock's hand and pulls him to standing, then down the short hallway to their bedroom. The late afternoon light is hazy, but bright. John leaves Sherlock standing by the side of the bed and goes to pull the curtains shut. He sets the mirror up against them so they don't drift open and wake Sherlock before night falls.

Sherlock watches him from the other side of the room, eyes soft and docile. So beautiful. So brilliant. So needful and hungry for affection, for love. He cried on their wedding day. Wept. In front of everyone they knew, as John slipped the silver band around his finger, he sobbed, all the years of pent up emotion and love breaking over him like a wave. John had never seen anything more beautiful; which was exactly what he whispered in Sherlock's ear as he held him close and wiped the tears away. 

"Get your pyjamas on, Sherlock." John nods at the dresser, their clothes neatly folded and separated inside the way John likes them.

"Will you stay with me?" Sherlock's voice is small as he pulls his shirt off over his wrists, unbuttons his trousers.

"Yes, of course, sweetheart. Of course. I wouldn't leave you alone." John pulls the covers back, arranges the pillows, and lays down. 

Sherlock strips off his trousers and pants, stands with his back to John as he picks out a pair of pyjama bottoms. John allows himself a moment to appreciate the gracefulness of that silhouette, broad shoulders, the ripple and swell of each muscle in his back, the curve of his buttocks, firm and perfectly round, the long muscular thighs tapering into slightly knobbly knees and calves that could belong to a ballet dancer. 

"You're beautiful." John's said it a thousand times, maybe more. John tells him daily how beautiful he is, how intelligent, how loved. He never feels like Sherlock truly believes it, understands his own worth, or beauty, or intelligence. Always trying to prove himself, prove that he’s needed. 

Sherlock looks over his shoulder at John, a flush high on his cheeks, and shakes his head slightly. Turns back and pulls on his favourite pyjama bottoms, blue pinstripes flannel, worn thin, soft as down feathers. 

"I mean it. You're breathtaking." 

Sherlock crawls into bed beside John, melds to his side, their bodies perfectly corresponding shapes. Made to be together this way.

John pulls Sherlock’s head against his chest, tucks his chin into his hair, and rubs his back with long easy strokes. Sherlock sighs, his body loosening, limbs going heavy as he loops his right arm over John’s chest and his right leg in between both of John’s. 

“There now, love. Just, shhh.” John’s runs his index finger over the band on Sherlock’s left hand, curled against his chest. “Husband.”

Sherlock laughs breathily, and John can tell he’s already on the verge of sleep. He’s been running for days, unable to calm himself down. Usually John doesn’t interfere with cases, doesn’t exercise his role as the dominant in the relationship while Sherlock is working, even if Sherlock’s not taking care of himself. Now, with Sherlock’s bony cheekbone pressing a bruise into his pectoral, and his muffled sleepy noises as he drifts off, he realises how needful of this Sherlock has been. 

“Sleep, baby. I’ll be right here when you wake up.” John twirls a lock of Sherlock’s hair around his fingers and wiggles down until he’s comfortable enough to stay that way for the hours it will take for Sherlock to catch up on his sleep. They’ve been down this road before. When Sherlock doesn’t sleep for days, once the crash hits, he sleeps for eleven or twelve hours at a time. Luckily it’s late afternoon already, so John himself will be able to sleep relatively soon.

“Mmmkay.” Sherlock tilts his head, kisses John’s neck. “Love you.”

“Love you, too, baby.” 

“Mmm,” Sherlock hums, satisfied. “Baby.”

John strokes down Sherlock’s face with his thumb, pleased at how calm and peaceful he is, how easily he’s capitulated to everything John’s told him to do. Some days it’s still not easy for Sherlock to cede control, especially during a case. 

“That’s right. Baby. My baby.” John kisses his forehead again. “Sleep now. No more talking.”

Scant minutes pass before the room is filled with the sound of Sherlock's quiet snores, and his weight against John's side increases as sleep claims him. John reaches into the bedside drawer, careful not to dislodge Sherlock, and retrieves his book, props his wrist against the rhythmic rise and fall of Sherlock's shoulder, and begins reading.

***

John wakes in the dark. His left arm completely numb under Sherlock's shoulders, his leg freezing where it's jutting out from the covers. Sherlock's rolled half on his side, curled in a ball except for his right arm thrown backwards across John's chest.

Blinking and trying to orient himself, John squints at the bedside clock. 4:14am. He must have dropped off around 6:00pm, about two hours after Sherlock. Christ, ten hours of sleep.

They had _both_ been exhausted.

He considers waking Sherlock, then decides to let him sleep. He's starving, though, and has a powerful need to piss. He works his arm slowly out from under Sherlock and tiptoes into the loo. While he’s there, he decides he may well shower. When he’s through, he pulls on the same rumpled clothes from the night before and exits through the hallway door so he doesn't have to fumble around in the dark bedroom and accidentally wake Sherlock. 

As he's putting on the coffee and popping bread in the toaster, he remembers to text Greg. Now that Sherlock's fed and rested, they should get back to The Yard ASAP. The potential price of Sherlock's mental stability, the fact that the killer could have struck again while they've been peacefully sleeping, isn't lost on John. 

He shuffles into the sitting room, munching a piece of buttered toast, and grabs his phone from the seat of his chair. 

_We can be in at eight. Any news?_

John drops his phone back in his chair, hears a muffled groan from the bedroom. Then a panicked "John?"

He told Sherlock he'd be there when he woke up. When Sherlock's in his subspace, he's needy, dependent, can't be left. Shit.

John skids around the corner of the kitchen doorway, darts back into the bedroom and flips the light on. Sherlock squints and grumbles, waves a hand at him. "Turn it off."

John laughs, relieved, and turns the light back off. "You okay?"

"Yes. I just. You said you'd be here. I didn't know where you were." Sherlock sounds half apologetic, half petulant. The timbre of his voice stirs heat in John's belly, the beginnings of arousal tingling through his thighs and lower back. 

He crosses to the bed in two strides, and lowers himself beside Sherlock. “Hey, baby, I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d wake up before I had breakfast and whatnot. You hungry?”

“No.” There’s a tone in Sherlock’s voice that’s a bit off, though John can’t identify exactly what it is. He sounds...annoyed. 

He brushes Sherlock’s fringe back from his forehead. “Let me rephrase that. You’re going to get up, and use the loo, and brush your teeth, and take a shower, and have toast and eggs and coffee for breakfast, and you’ll eat what I give you. It’s not a choice.” 

Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s hips and buries his face in his lap. Doesn't reply with his typical _Yes, John._

“Are you alright?” Becoming a bit concerned now, John massages the back of Sherlock’s sleep-warm neck gently. “Sherlock?”

“Yes, I’m alright.” Sherlock nuzzles into John’s lap, his nose brushing the inside of John’s thigh, and that spark of arousal flares brighter. 

He ignores it. “Okay, well, then get yourself in the shower and brush your teeth and I’ll have some breakfast ready when you come out.” 

Sherlock grunts and grumbles, but pushes up off of John’s lap and throws his legs over the side of the bed. John watches him stretching and yawning his way into the bathroom, his shoulders still a bit sloped. He looks downtrodden. “Hey.”

Sherlock turns, eyes big and round, hair tousled from sleep. Something's crackling between them, something John would normally identify as just needing a good shag, but this feels tetchy, fragile. 

John reaches inside his tee shirt and pulls his dog tags over his head. He should have done this last night. He stands up and lowers them over Sherlock’s curls, smoothes the silver circles against the tawny down on his bare chest. “Better?”

Sherlock touches his fingertips to them, but doesn't smile. He pecks a quick kiss on John’s cheek. “Yes. Thank you.” 

John ruffles his hair. “Alright, I’m going to make breakfast. Be at the table in 15 minutes.”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock’s eyes are still roiling with something John can’t quite decipher. 

John hears the shower come on as he cracks two eggs into the pan and gets the sugar out of the cabinet for Sherlock’s coffee. His phone buzzes. 

_We have someone in custody. Evidence undeniable. Tell Sherlock thanks, as always. Don’t worry about coming in this morning._

Shit. Sherlock’s not going to be pleased the case was solved without him. John rubs his hands over his face. Sherlock’s never, not once, failed to crack the case when Greg brought him in. He’s going to be gutted. 

***

Sherlock takes his empty plate to the sink and pours himself a second cup of coffee. 

John stares at his husband’s back as Sherlock scoops sugar into his coffee. “Sherlock.”

“John.” He spins around, looking much more himself than he’s been in days, no longer bedraggled and exhausted, and emerging from his subspace as well. 

“I have to tell you something.” For the first time in years, he’s honestly not sure how Sherlock’s going to react. This is unprecedented territory. 

“That sounds terribly tragic, John.” Sherlock smirks, leans against the counter and sips his coffee.

John clears his throat. Christ, he’s actually nervous. “Greg texted while you were in the shower.”

“Something new?” Sherlock’s eyes are immediately alight, his posture stiffening, ready to go flying down the stairs to Scotland Yard, to a new crime scene.

“No, love. They -- have someone in custody. Apprehended him during the night. Greg said the evidence is airtight. It’s done.”

Sherlock stares at John for a moment. Blinks. Swallows. Says nothing.

The minutes drag on, John sitting at the table silently, Sherlock mute. John can see the anger behind his eyes, the confusion. Underneath all the arrogance, the bravado, Sherlock is profoundly insecure, so crippled by self doubt that it takes very little to tip him over the edge. Things have gotten better, John’s unwavering love has filled in a bit of the deep well of self loathing, but it’s not always enough. Probably won't ever be. And this. This is what he does. This is who he is. Solve the case. Catch the criminal. This is the only space in his life in which he's always confident. 

Fifteen minutes of dead silence are shattered by the sudden crash of a coffee mug against the wall. 

“I _knew_ we shouldn’t have left last night! _Goddammit_ , John. I didn’t need to sleep. I needed to solve the _fucking_ case.” Sherlock spits at him, grinding his teeth, as coffee runs in dark rivulets down the wallpaper. 

“Sherlock. Calm down.” John holds his hands up, moves toward Sherlock, his throat tight with shock and apprehension.

“Do _not_ tell me to calm down.” Sherlock points a long shaking finger at him. “I have failed to solve a case for the first time, and it’s because you made me leave. This is _your_ fault.”

A ball of searing hot anger is rising in John’s chest. They’ve never fought like this, even before they were together. Sherlock has never spoken to him like this. John tries to make himself understand. Sherlock’s never felt this before, and he’s lost. Sherlock doesn’t know how to deal with himself. That’s John’s role. 

The dom in him is telling him to get Sherlock under control, not permit this kind of disobedience. The husband in him is seething with guilt, agreeing with Sherlock that he shouldn’t have made him leave. The best friend in him is telling him Sherlock just needs to get it out of his system and then he’ll be reasonable.  

John takes a deep breath and tries to listen to all three, which is surprisingly difficult. “Sherlock. I understand you’re upset, but this not the way to handle it, okay? It's no ones fault. Not yours, not mine. You did need to rest last night, you wouldn’t have gotten anywhere with the case even if you were there, and it’s fucking okay to not be perfect all the time, alright? You don’t have to solve every single case you’re on. Sometimes Greg can actually be a cop, he knows how to do that.” 

Sherlock’s hands dive into his hair, frantically tugging. His eyes are brimming with angry tears. “I’ve never. Never not solved a case. _Never_.”

“Sherlock. Sherlock. Listen to me.” John’s stomach is tight with anxiety. This is their first real moment of testing their sub/dom arrangement, and they're already spinning out of control. He takes Sherlock’s face in his hands. “You haven’t done anything wrong. Except throw the mug and yell at me, but we’ll deal with that in a moment. Not solving a case is something that’s very occasionally going to happen. It’s not a reflection on your intelligence or your capabilities, alright? No one will think less of you.”

Sherlock tries to jerk his head out of John’s grasp, pushes at his arms with his hands. John tightens his grip, and Sherlock drops his hands. He whimpers a little and casts his eyes on the floor. 

“No. You will listen to me. Look at me, Sherlock. _Sherlock_. Look at me.” John shakes Sherlock’s head a very little bit, and Sherlock’s eyes snap up to meet his. “There’s my boy. Listen to me very carefully. You’re worth more to me than any case in the fucking world, and you need to understand that your worth isn’t tied to solving cases. I wouldn’t give a fuck if you never solved a case again in our lives. You understand that?”

Sherlock nods, his mouth in a defiant pout. “Yes. But it would matter to _me_.”

John softens, the swell of anger subsiding. “I know that, sweetheart. And you’re very good at it. Amazingly good at it. It doesn’t mean you have to be perfect at it, alright? And the most important thing here is that a criminal’s been caught, yeah? Isn’t that the point of what we do? We get the bad guy. Well, the bad guy is gotten. No one else is going to get hurt, and I am certain that your deductions up until last night aided in that.”

“I should have been there.” Sherlock's voice is hard. His jaw tenses under John's palms.

“No. You should have been here, eating and sleeping and taking care of yourself, so you can do it again. You’re no good to anyone half asleep and dehydrated, Sherlock. You know that. Or, actually, you usually don't, which is why I took you home.”

Sherlock fixes John with a glare and shakes his head free of John's hands. He rears back as far as he can with the counter behind him, pushes John back. Away from him. "I would appreciate it if you didn't _actually_ speak to me like I'm a child."

Anger trills icily down John's spine. "What did you say to me?"

"Oh, do I need to speak more slowly so you can understand?" Lip curling in a sneer, Sherlock leans in close to John's face until they're nearly nose to nose. "I said. Don't. Fucking. Talk. To. Me. Like. I'm. A. Child."

John wants to hit him. Wants to smack that sneer off his lovely face, make Sherlock feel the sting of his wedding band against his cheekbone. He digs his fingernails into the heels of his hands instead, clamps down hard on the tip of his tongue with his teeth. "I would step back if I were you, Sherlock."

Sherlock's beyond caring. He looks John up and down, and turns on his heel, crosses the kitchen. "What are you going to do? Hit me? Go ahead. You want to, I can tell."

John breathes hard through his nose, his shoulders trembling with the effort of containing the rage that's burning acid in his throat. His teeth hurt already from clenching them. "I am not going to hit you."

"But you do want to. You want to punish me. Correct me. Put me in my place." Sherlock sounds disgusted. He kicks at the shards of the mug, sending one spinning out into the hallway. "Tell me you don't."

Pushing, mocking. Sherlock knows exactly how to prod John until he explodes, though he's never done it so explicitly before. He's twisting everything they've agreed on, everything Sherlock's asked for, and making a mockery of it. John's stomach hurts. 

"Where is this coming from, Sherlock?" His voice is shaking, even his vocal chords strained by the normally buried fury that's now far too close to the surface. "You have no right. You're the one who wanted this. You’re the one who always asks me to correct you. I’ve never, never even once initiated that. You’re the one who wanted all of this. You. Not me."

Sherlock laughs, cold and sharp, and crushes a piece of mug under his bare foot. He's got to have cut himself, but he doesn't even wince. "Oh really? I didn't start this, John. _My good boy_ , remember? Sweetheart. _Little one_. Pet. Don't fucking tell me you don't get off on this, _Captain_ Watson. You love having me at your whim. You love having someone to command and domineer, and you love that it's me. Don't try to tell me you don't."

Their whole life together is rearranging itself, far too quickly for John to comprehend. It's all been so harmonious until now, their arrangement. John falling naturally into his role as leader, caretaker. Sherlock looking to him for comfort, guidance in the ways of relationships and love and sex; the areas of the world Sherlock wasn't an expert in. It's been easy. _Too_ easy, John realises now. 

They've never really talked about why this works for them. How, yes, but not why. They’ve negotiated terms and boundaries and what John’s not comfortable with, what Sherlock’s not comfortable with. They’ve tasted each other’s blood. They’ve cried in each other’s arms, they’ve let go in front of each other in ways neither of them ever anticipated they could have done. They’ve given themselves to this relationship, but they’ve never talked about why. Why this. 

They've never talked about what it is about John that makes Sherlock - the man who normally dominates everyone in the room - want to submit, give up his power. They’ve never talked about why Sherlock needs John’s praise and approval, or less often John’s hand hard and punishing across his bum. Never why. Just how. They’ve never explored the motivation behind why they both need this so badly. John's never even given a thought to how this all works in his own life. Why he likes this. In fact, he often tells himself that he doesn’t like it, that’s it’s not for him. It’s for Sherlock. It's always been about Sherlock. 

"This isn't about me, Sherlock." There's a thudding ache beginning behind his eyes. He digs his thumb and forefinger into his tear ducts and squeezes until he sees white spots. He's terrible at these kinds of discussions. They make him feel muddled and thick, as if he can't form the right words.

"It _never_ is. It's always about me. How fucked up I am. How I need you to take care of me. It's never _ever_ about you. Poor Sherlock. Poor messed up Sherlock who needs John to feed him and bathe him and treat him like a goddamned baby. It's never about John. _Never_." Sherlock hisses the words at him, saliva flecks flying from between clenched teeth. There are spots of colour on his cheeks, his eyes burning black and diamond hard. 

"I'm not the one throwing mugs and having a bloody temper tantrum, Sherlock." They've never been this angry at each other. The realisation settles in John's stomach like a boulder, immoveable. Is this it? The moment that breaks them? 

Sherlock's face twists until he barely looks like himself. "No. You never do. It would be _beneath_ John Watson to get angry, to have a tantrum. You just control. Everything and everyone. Yourself, me, Greg, your fucking sister you never even allow to come to London and visit because she potentially might temporarily embarrass you. Has it ever occurred to you that you're not everyone's damn _captain_?"

"I never said I was." John's head is pounding steadily now. Its like he has too much blood in his veins. Everything feels tight to bursting. "But you _wanted_ this, Sherlock! You wanted me to be your dom, you told me you needed this!"

"Well maybe I'm reconsidering." Sherlock strides towards John menacingly, and John actually has to consciously force himself not to step back. Sherlock's voice is a harsh half whisper, "The Work, John. You interfered with The Work. And I _let_ you. I gave you that. With barely a whit of protest."

"Because you needed me to take care of you. Because you --" John can feel himself flailing, looking for something to anchor himself to. He feels like he's falling down a well and clawing at the slick stone walls. 

Sherlock cuts him off, shoves a finger into his sternum. "No. I didn't. I needed to stay and solve the case, like I've always done. I could have slept today. I could have eaten at the Yard. I didn't need those things last evening. That was all _you_ , superseding what I knew about myself, making a decision for me I knew was wrong and I let you."

John licks his lips, wills himself not to scream. When he speaks, his voice is dead calm, if a bit shaky. "You let me because that's the -- arrangement -- we've come to. Because you asked -- no, _insisted_ \-- that I be this dominant, that I take control of everything. That I take control of you."

Sherlock lets out a howl of frustration, and whirls away from John, banging on the sides of his head with his palms. "But you keep acting like its just me! Pretending you get nothing out of this, and that's so goddamned untrue! You love this. You _LOVE_ it. You love controlling me. You love doing it in public, showing me off, how well I listen, how good I am for you, and only you. How you’ve _tamed_ me. You love leading me around like a child, it feeds your ego, makes you feel like a big man." 

"Oh, how mature, Sherlock. We making height jokes now? Yeah, I'm fucking short. Four stars, mate. What an insult. You're acting a right bloody fool." John can't stand looking at the derisive curve of Sherlock's lip for one more second. His entire body is quivering. He stomps into the sitting room and snatches his keys off the key rack, scraping his knuckle across the hook in the process. Great. Now he’s bleeding. He sucks the blood off and wrenches the door open. "I need some air."

Angry footsteps behind him precede Sherlock's voice, more coldly furious than John's ever heard it. If Sherlock was a different kind of man, John would be bracing for a blow. "Yes, _leave_. That's what you always do when things are too ugly or real. _I need some air._ At least be creative enough to think of a new line once in a while. That one's getting tired."

John's eyes are going to burst. His skin is cracking. The emotion that's been building through this wretched conversation is starting to leak now, seep around through the cracks and crevices in his facade. Facade. That's what it is. He feels amazingly disingenuous suddenly. As if he's been playacting at something he doesn't even have a script for. As if the last almost two years of their life together has been a deeply fucked up charade. 

He’s unmoored. It’s terrifying. It’s also infuriating. 

"Oi! Stop your shit, Sherlock. You wanna fight, let's fucking fight. Let's fucking tear each other a new one. But you can leave your snide little asides at the fucking door, yeah?" His accent's changed, the lilt he took on in the army, in med school, slipping back into an East London working class drawl. Always comes out when he's spitting mad.

"Ooh, chavvy. You doing that on purpose? Or does it just come out when you can't remember to fake it?" Sherlock's voice cruelly light hearted, as if all this is a clever joke. As if John's anger is funny. So condescending it's cruel.

John squeezes his keys in his fist, hard, and then throws them on the coffee table with as much force as he wants to hurl at Sherlock. The sound of it startles them both. They crash into the surface, skid across the length and drop into the floor. The teeth leave dents in the wood. "Why are you doing this? What the fuck, Sherlock? What the fuck is wrong with you? All I've ever tried to do is make you happy, goddammit."

John thinks Sherlock’s going to give. His eyes flicker for a second, mouth twitching, and John can see him struggling with himself. He looks down, but when his eyes focus on John again, they’re unforgiving. "If you _really_ think that, if you _really_ think this has all been about me, you're more of an idiot than I thought you were."

A vision flashes bright in John's mind's eye; his hand around Sherlock's throat, pushing him up against the door, Sherlock clawing at his wrist, begging for air. John's fingers depressing Sherlock's windpipe. He's done that before. In combat. He knows how much pressure to exert, when to back off. His eye twitches.

He has never been even close to this angry with Sherlock. Not when he came back from the dead as if it had been a grand adventure that John had missed out on, not when he manipulated John into forgiving Mary even while he alone knew it was all false, not in the two years they've been a couple, never. Not in almost nine years of friendship, and all their struggles, and bickering, and occasionally screaming rows, never has John felt such all-consuming rage. 

He wonders briefly if it's actually possible to have a stroke from anger, as every vein in his head throbs and his heart hammers against its cage. 

"Then you tell me. Because you always have the fucking answers." Every nerve in his body is sparking. He can't stop shaking. He will not hit Sherlock, as much as he wants to. He hit him twice in anger, and he swore he would never again do that.  His muscles are twitching for it, though. To pound his fists, to push and twist and hurt. "Because you're so much fucking smarter than I am. Right? You're the clever one. You tell me what this is about, because I swear to God, Sherlock, I have no fucking clue what's happening between us right now. I really don't."

The flat goes dead silent, the only sounds their ragged breathing and the familiar tick of the mantle clock. Both of them stock still, bodies tensed. Ready for a brawl. John can't stop shivering.

Finally Sherlock speaks, his voice dangerously quiet. "You interfered with my work. You prevented me from solving a case. And I permitted you to do it. That cannot ever happen again."

John has no idea what to say to that. There are so many things they aren't talking about. This isn't just about The Work, and Sherlock has to know that too. This is about everything they are. This is about their life. John seethes and waits.

"You crossed a line. I won't let you do that again. The Work comes first. Always. You've always said we do this our way, that we're not bound by arbitrary rules, that we make our own. Well, I'm making a rule. You're never allowed to interfere with The Work. Not as my husband, not as my dom. The Work is mine. Mine, and you'll defer to me in that or you won't be a part of it anymore, understand?"

All the air goes from his lungs in a rush, like a fist to the gut. It hurts more than anything Sherlock's yet said. To be shut out of what brought them together in the first place, to be excluded from the most important part of Sherlock's life; it's unimaginable. The thought alone creates a chasm in him, an aching emptiness. A sob escapes him. "Sherlock. I didn't mean to --"

"John, no. Yes, you did mean to. Don't stand there and blatently lie to me. You meant to interfere. You meant to assert your authority over me -"

John interrupts, "You were bashing your head against a fucking wall, Sherlock. You hadn't slept in two days. I was trying to protect you from yourself, for fuck's sake."

"Whether it was done out of concern or not is inconsequential, John. I'm not your pet, to be led around by a leash and patted on the head and given my daily treats. I'm submissive to you, but I'm also a grown man, and you seem to have blurred the lines in your mind.”

“I’ve never once treated you that way. Like you're not an independent adult.”

“ _Bullshit_. You do all the time.” Sherlock snaps, but there's a growing tone of exhaustion in his voice. Sherlock’s foot is bleeding where he stood on the broken mug. There’s a trail of bloody footprints overlapping each other on the wood floor where Sherlock’s paced back and forth. “And the worst part isn’t that you do it, it’s that you won’t even admit it. Won’t even admit that this is a part of you.” 

Despite everything, John has the overwhelming urge to tell Sherlock to sit down, let him clean his foot, bandage it. He swallows, eyes fixed on a bloody smear next to the kitchen door.

“Sherlock, your foot --”

“I don’t give a _goddamn_ about my foot! Are you even listening?! Why can’t you talk about it?? Why can’t you say Yes, I enjoy being in this relationship, I enjoy being in charge, I enjoy when Sherlock’s a weak little kitten who needs Daddy to spank him and tell him he’s a good boy for taking his punishment? That you need this as much as I do? Why can’t you say you need it, that you want it? What are you ashamed of?”

John opens his mouth to retort, to say he isn’t ashamed, to say he’s proud of who they are and how far they’ve come and of the life they’ve made together. He opens his mouth to say that, and realises Sherlock is right. He’s been in denial about his own part in this ever since it began. He thought it would be a fun bedroom game, something to spice up the sex, and instead it turned into their lives. It turned into who they are, and it changed their relationship. It changed John. Self-reflection has never been his strong point, but this. He's made everything about Sherlock, when of course that's idiotic. It seems so obvious now, how impossible it is to behave as though a relationship is all about one person. Two people chose this, two people need this, two people live this everyday. 

The scope of his own lack of self awareness is staggering. What a completely arrogant and self-serving prick he’s been washes over him so hard and fast it nearly knocks him to his knees. 

John blinks and blinks, his face growing hot under Sherlock’s piercing gaze. 

Finally, when he’s fairly confident he’s not going to topple over under the weight of the truths that are now colliding against each other in his mind, he croaks out, “You’re right.”

Sherlock’s face hardens briefly, as if he’s going to argue, and then goes slack and shocked. “What?”

“You’re right.” John shakes his head and exhales, chews his tongue. “I have been so blind in all this, Sherlock. Jesus Christ, I. I don't even know what to say. I -- I’m always hurting you and not meaning to. I told you. When we started this, I told you how afraid I was of hurting you, and now here we are. Shit. I’m so sorry, love. I’m so sorry. I have acted like a complete arse. I have. I don't want to, I didn't mean to. But -- I don’t know if I know how to fix this.”

It becomes very clear very quickly that Sherlock isn't going to just fall into his arms and forgive him. Sherlock's jaw goes tight and he runs his fingers through his hair several times, eyes wild. Finally he looks at John, his head tilted to the side, his eyes now narrowing, "Well. I'm glad we got there, anyway. It's a start."

John doesn't know what to say. He's lost. Lost for words, lost for Sherlock, lost in himself. The most natural thing seems to just say, "I'm so sorry. I'm not ashamed. I'm not."

Sherlock looks away, chewing on the inside of his cheek. The air in the room is so thick John can barely breathe. His chest is tight. 

"John, I'm going to go to the Yard and talk to Lestrade. By myself. I need to think. I need to be -- away. To be able to think." Sherlock won't look at him. His voice is shaking. "I can't do this anymore right now. I just can't."

John can barely swallow. Dread is curling icy fingers around his throat. "When you say - this - you mean?"

"You. Us. I need -- I don't know what I need, but its not this. I can't be here." Sherlock's voice is strained. His mouth twitches to the side and his eyes are shining when he flicks them up to look at John again. He retreats into the kitchen, gets the first aid kit, and sinks into his chair, crossing his bleeding foot over his opposite knee.

"You can't be here?" John repeats dumbly, staring at Sherlock cleaning his foot with an alcohol wipe and putting a plaster over it.

Sherlock stands, gets his shoes and socks from beside the sofa. "No. I can't. I need -- I need. I need to get away from this place. That's so -- I can't think about you and me here. It's too close. It's too much _us_ , here. I get mixed up, and I can't get mixed up about this. God, John. I need to retain some facet of who I am, for godssake."

The words hit John in the chest, right under his sternum. That was the thing he always feared. Feared and in some secret part of himself wanted. Sherlock being submerged in this, in him. And here he is saying thats exactly what's happened. Acid surges up in his throat even as he feels tears spilling hot down his face. "I love you."

"I know. I love you too."

"Please don't leave." Desperation floods through John. He wants to fall on his knees, wrap his arms around Sherlock's hips, bury his face in his clothes and cry and beg, make him stay, make him forgive him. Every ounce of confidence and dominance in him has dissolved into panic. " _Please_. Please don't go."

"I'm just going to Scotland Yard, John. I'll be home tonight." Sherlock stuffs his keys in the pocket of his trousers, moves automatically toward John - to hug and kiss him goodbye, smile and murmur l _ove you, see you in a few hours_ \- but then retracts. He doesn't smile. "I'm sleeping on the sofa tonight. You can have the bed. You always need more sleep anyway. I'll text you if I'll be late. So you won't worry."

Tears are dripping off John's chin, soaking the collar of his shirt. He's never felt so alone since he stood at Sherlock's grave all those years ago. He can't think of anything to say. "Should I make dinner?"

Sherlock's already halfway out the door. He shakes his head. "No."

Sherlock closes the door quietly behind him, and John listens to his rapid footfalls down the steps, to the front door opening and slamming shut. Have to slam it for it to stay shut, John thinks numbly. 

He doesn't know how long he stands in the middle of the sitting room, staring at the back of the door. It's long enough that his leg starts to hurt. He realises there's snot all over his mouth. His shirt is soaked. His knuckle is bloody and sore from where he tore the skin on the key hook. He stumbles into the bedroom and collapses on the bed, too numb and sick to even cry anymore. He doesn't even care enough to wipe his face. He gathers Sherlock's pillow to his face, breathes in the smell of his shampoo and his skin, and shakes and shakes.

He falls asleep that way, snot and tears drying all over his face, Sherlock's pillow clutched tightly between his hands. He wakes alone, in the dark. He wonders for a disoriented moment how he could have slept all day, and then realises it's storming out, the sky blue black like a healing bruise, rain cascading down the window panes.

He shuffles off the bed, aching and empty, pours himself a cup of cold coffee and curls in his chair with his knees drawn up to his chest. He pulls a blank notebook, the kind he usually keeps case notes in, off the bookshelf. _Right. Time to be honest. Time to fix this._

He picks up a pen from the side table, and begins to write.

***

Sherlock comes in hours later, long after John's put the notebook aside.  He walks into the sitting room and takes a long look at John, chair turned to face the dying fire, then crosses the room and silently sets John's dog tags on the side table, the ball chain trickling through his fingers like beads of water.

John looks down at the pile of silver and then up at Sherlock. His chest hurts. "You don't want them anymore?"

"No. Not anymore. Just. Not right now." Sherlock bends infintesimally forward, and for one shining second John thinks he's going to kiss him goodnight. Instead the motion turns out more like a truncated bow, and Sherlock nods at him. "Well, goodnight."

"Oh. I'll just..." John makes to get up, go in their bedroom so Sherlock can sleep in the sofa. He aches, thinking of sleeping alone tonight, of Sherlock sleeping alone. Both of them insomniacs, tending towards behaviours like sleep walking and thrashing nightmares, they need each other to sleep. The bed will be terribly empty without their entangled limbs, Sherlock's sweaty cheek pressed against John's neck, his hands tucked warm under John's tee shirt as John's thigh slots between his legs. Sherlock always runs so hot, sweaty when he sleeps, damp tendrils stuck to his forehead when he wakes up. The bed will be so cold without him in it.

"No, please. I don't want you to have to go to bed before you're ready. I'll just go upstairs and do some reading." Sherlock plucks a book from a stack on the floor next to his chair and disappears up the steps to John's old room before John can object.

John ends up not sleeping. He just stares into the fire until it dies, until his eyes are heavy and stinging, until his arse is numb and his leg aches, and stares at the cinders as they burn away to ash. 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally could NOT taken this fic to the places it went without the amazing and talented CaitlinFairchild and bittergreens, who gave me INCREDIBLE feedback and input, and generally just supported me while I wrestled with this beast. Thank you, my sisters in fic!

**11 March**

Dear Sherlock,

_I have no idea how to talk to you about any of this. Ella always said I did better writing than talking, and I think she was right. I can't seem to form the right words when we're arguing. But maybe here I can find the way to be honest, to not run away from what's real, like you said. I want so badly to fix this, what's broken between us._

_I've never been a very introspective man. We didn't really do that in my house growing up. It was more of a 'shut up and eat your supper' kind of household. That's not an excuse, just an explanation. Of why I am the way I am. I don't ever think about things too deeply, I just do them._

_That really didn't work so well this time, did it?_

_You're gone and the flat feels so empty. I miss you._

_I love you so much, Sherlock. I don't think I even have the words. You're the only best friend I've ever had. I think maybe we've lost a bit of that lately, the friendship, and that's my fault. I feel like I've gone so far off course and I don't even know how it happened._

_Shit, I'm rambling. I'm just really lost right now and I wish you were here. As much as you confuse me sometimes, I'm always better with you than I am without you._

_I'm going to try and think, really take a look at myself, maybe with the help of three fingers of whiskey...and I'll write here again._

_I love you. I love you so much. I would do anything to fix this. I will do anything to fix this. I won't let you down again._

John

***

**15 March**

Dear Sherlock,

_You're still sleeping on the sofa. It's been three nights. God I miss you. I miss your arm around me, and your breath on my neck, your grumpiness in those first minutes you're awake. I can barely sleep by myself. The bed is so empty without you in it._

_Everything is so empty without you in it._

_So I've been thinking. A lot. About everything you said the other night. About me not owning up to my own feelings. I told you that you were right, and you were. You are. I always made my life about other people. About focusing on them and not myself. First it was taking care of mum and dad, then Harry. Then med school. Taking care of people wasn't about being altruistic. I just wanted to be busy, I think._

_I think the army was about that too. Taking care of my fellow soldiers, and in a more distant sense, my country. You called me a quaint little patriot once. I wasn't really. Never was. It was never about patriotism. It just seemed like a place I could fit in and get away from myself._

_You don't think much in the army. You just do it. You take orders, you give orders, you try not to think about the reasons you're shooting people in the middle of the desert half a world away from home. Thinking is firmly discouraged, honestly. Not that there's much space for it anyway. Any free time, you just try to sleep._

_Anyway. Sorry, got off track there. I've had some Irish courage. This isn't easy for me._

_What was I saying. Okay. So then. Then I was really lost, when I got home, which you already know. And then you. You, Sherlock. You were the best thing that ever happened to me. I know thats a ridiculous cliche, but it's true. God, you were everything I'd never known I needed. You filled spaces in me I didn't know were empty. You made me feel things I'd never felt before. Like happiness. Actual happiness. I don't think I can even tell you. What you meant to me, even in those first days. I hadn't laughed in fucking years. And you made me laugh._

_You still make me laugh. All the time._

_You brought me to my fucking knees, Sherlock. I've never really told you. It was like being hit by a bus, you looking at me, that day at Bart's. You looked at me and I just knew. I would have done anything for you right from that first moment. You had me body and soul._

_But I did it again. I messed up from the start. I made it all about you. Your work. Your life. Your flat. Your friends. And it was so natural to me, I didn't even know I was doing it. But there I was, not thinking about what I was getting out of this at all. It was always about what you needed from me, how I could help you. Because that's more comfortable for me than looking at myself._

_I think sometimes I'm afraid of what I'll find if I look too deeply. I always call myself a simple man. But I think - I think that's the biggest lie I've told myself. You've told me, you've known. About the darker things. The stuff I can't say. Even here. Even now. You know me better than I know myself. I guess that shouldn't be a surprise. You know everyone better than they know themselves._

_But know that I do know those things about myself. I'm not entirely oblivious. I just don't want to look at them too closely. I don't want to be someone who does awful things and doesn't mind. I don't want to be someone who can be callous. I'm a doctor for fuck's sake. I'm supposed to be an upstanding person, you know? And sometimes I'm just really not._

_Sometimes I'm a right bastard. That scares the fuck out of me. Which I guess you already know, because sometimes I'm a bastard to you._

_God I'm getting too drunk for this. You're here. The door just opened downstairs. You're going to come upstairs and smile at me politely and not talk beyond how was your day and you'll lock yourself in my old room and I won't see you all night and god this is like dying, Sherlock. I miss you I miss you I miss you._

_I miss you._

John

***

**16 March**

Dear Sherlock,

_You brought milk home last night. And pad thai from that place we took Molly and Greg for dinner a few weeks ago. We ate together for the first time in four days. It felt good to see you across the table from me, even if we barely spoke._

_I think you're sorry too. About how this all came out._

_You still slept on the sofa. I wish you'd come to bed._

John

***

**17 March**

Dear Sherlock, 

_I'm very drunk. It is st Patricks day after all. Greg took me out tonight and I think he heard way more than he wanted to. About us. Hopefully hell forget. He was pretty pised to._

_Shit. I cant spell._

_Okay, but here is what it is. I want you to need me. I need to feel like you need me. And when you're doing what I tell you to do its like you need me. I feel like I'm necessary. Sometimes I don't think I am. To you. Because you're so. So you. So smart and so goddamned gorgeous and sexy and brilliant and why the fuck do you want me. You could have anyone anyone in the world. And I couldnt. I'm short and tend towrd the pudgy when I'm not careful and i've never made any money and I'm just so fucking average sherlock. I don't understand sometimes why you love me so much._

_So I guess I'm really bloody insecure. Huh. Didn't see that one coming._

_But its much more easy to be honest with yourself when your pissed on Irish coffees and tequila shots. You're asleep. I'm writing in our room. You were on the sofa when I came in, looking so beautiful. It was all I could do not to just lay on top of you when I came in. I miss you so bad baby, oh god._

_Oh shit I got off track again._

_You know what else it is? I think anyway. I may reconsider all this when I'm sober. But its safe to be in charge, its easy. Its not easy to let someone else have power. Because they hurt you. They leave. They jump off buildings and go away for two years. Yeah I'm still pretty fucked up over that if you want to know the truth. And sometimes I worry that if I don't have this control over you, you'll go away again. You'll leave me alone. If you're not dependent on me. Wow that's pretty fucked up. But I would die if you left again. You have to know that._

_But sometimes I'm afraid you don't._

***

**18 March**

Dear Sherlock,

_Nursing quite a vicious hangover here. Threw up this morning. You came and helped me. Tucked me back in bed. It was the first time you've touched me in a week. If I hadn't been so sick, I think it would have made me cry. I can hear you in the kitchen. Something with slides. It's such a familiar sound, you and your experiments. Doing things I barely understand and I'm a bloody physician. I'm pretty intelligent myself, and you absolutely blow me out of the water. I hope you know how much I really do respect you. You're the most intelligent and unique person I've ever known. I think you're extraordinary. I'm frankly in awe of you a lot of the time._

_So I'm reading over my drunken rambling from last night and while it's pretty pathetic, it's also dead accurate. I do still feel insecure sometimes about me and you. I know I shouldn't, but. If I'm being honest. I do. Losing you was the worst thing that's ever happened to me, in a pretty crappy life, so that's saying a lot. And it just didn't seem like it was that big of a deal to you, to walk away and leave me behind for who knew how long. I still think about that a lot. I could never leave you like that, and it frightens me that you could, that you did. Even though I know you didn't have a choice...it happened. And it's hard to let go of, even after all this time._

_I can't live without you, you know. We're bound to each other by forces I don't have the eloquence to name. I love you isn't even close to good enough. I know you feel the same. Or most of the time I do. I guess moments of doubt are normal, but mine are exponentially bigger because I love you so much. Also the whole jumping off the roof thing. (See I'm being funny again. Or I'm trying anyway.)_

_So here's my part in this, Sherlock. You asked me to look at myself. To admit that I like you submissive, that I get something out of this. I've spent a week trying to do that. Well, and being drunk a lot. I guess that's not the healthiest route to self reflection. Be that as it may, here's what I've figured out._

_I have a lot of dark and complicated things at work in me. I'm controlling, and I have a terrible time trusting people, especially with how I feel. And I am not so great at  even trusting myself with them. I'm good at making myself miserable. These things are not going anywhere. I think I've been ignoring them, I know I have, and I promise I won't anymore. I'll face who I am. I hope you'll help me with that. It's going to be hard as fuck for me. I'm going to need you to guide me through._

_I've always said we don't need rules here, that we do this our way. That's only half true. I've been thinking a lot about this. I think this works for us on a lot of levels. It's given us both something that we need. I think you do need this from me, though obviously not exactly the way we've been going about it. I'm not ready to discard it. But I think while we do it our way, we do actually need some rules. Like that I defer to you at work. That there, I'm a colleague, and you're in charge. I need that as a hard line, or I'll overstep all the time._

_I think we need rules at home too. I don't really know what they would be, but we can make them together. And agree. Like adults. Rule one is that we always treat each other like adults, unless someone's specifically asked to not be. I have treated you often more like my child than my husband and my friend and my partner, and I see that now. I've played Daddy even when you never asked for that. I've led you around by the hand and made you acquiesce in public in a way that you never agreed to. We never explicitly agreed to me domming you outside of this flat, and that's my fault. So that's my first rule. You're an adult, unless you ask not to be, and you'll tell me when you need that._

_You said I was ashamed. Well, you were right. This isn't something you talk about, Sherlock. Being in a sub/dom relationship. It's not typical, and it's not like we know anyone we can compare notes with. It’s about power and sex and all these things you just don't talk about. I guess I've been battling myself, the self that grew up thinking it was really deviant just to like other men. The me that got beaten with a belt just for getting caught kissing another boy when I was thirteen. I've never told you that. It's not pleasant to remember._

_That kind of shit is really hard to get over. It's what held me back all those years before, with you. And I finally get over that, and then we're in this thing I have no experience with and I can't talk about it with anyone, and it has this stigma attached to it, and yeah. I've felt some shame about what we do. I have. I have and I'm so sorry. Because I love you so much and if this is who we are, then this is who we are and the only opinions that should matter are yours and mine._

_I might struggle with that, but you just remind me I'm being a prat and I'll get my shit together._

_Another thing. What you do in our relationship is so much harder than what I do. Allowing someone else to make decisions for you, to cede that to someone else, that's brave as hell. I don't think I've ever told you that before, but I've always thought it. I think so many things that I never say. Maybe that's a problem too, huh?_

_I know we didn't really talk about sex, but that's part of all this, and we should talk about it, I think. I think we work pretty damn well in that area. Maybe I'm wrong. But on my end, this the best, most incredibly mind blowing sex I've ever had and I can't ever get enough of you. If I'm wrong, tell me. Tell me and we'll fix it. You did mention one thing that I just want to clarify._

_It's true that I get turned on by correcting you, but that's one place you weren't 100% right last week. It's not just the correction. It's not about hitting you, at least not entirely. It's because it turns you on. It's because you like it, you want it. If you think I'm capable of not getting turned on when you're naked and hard and in my lap, for any reason, you obviously haven't looked in a mirror lately._

_I want to make you happy. When I said that, that was true. I want to make you happy in our lives and in The Work and in our bed. If it turns you on, it turns me on, full stop._

_It is true I like sex pretty rough. I always have. I never wanted to actually hit you, because I was afraid I'd lose it. That I'd end up really hurting you, that my anger would come out and I wouldn't be able to control it. When I didn't, when I didn't lose it, well. That opened up a door for me that I don't think I can close. When I realised we could have that, and I could maintain my composure...Yeah, I like it. Fuck, that was a lot harder to say than I thought. Even just writing it. I'm going to do what Ella told me once and just write it over and over, until it's not as hard. You want me to admit I like it, so I will. I do. I like it._

_It turns me on to spank you. It does. The fucking sounds you make and the way you look and you begging for it. I like it. I like to have you beg me. I like you on your knees. I like to hold you down. I like to see bruises on your wrists and your hips and know I put them there. I like to spank you and make you cry and beg and control you when we have sex. I do. I like it very much. I love it._

_I'm pretty sure you love it too. I sure fucking hope you do, because if you don't, then I'm even more terribly sorry than I already am._

_And I like lots of other things. Those aren't the only things. I don't always like it rough. I like it slow and quiet in the mornings. I like you inside me. I like when you pin me up against a wall. I like it when we lie together on the sofa and just stay close. I like when we're both too tired and we just fall asleep holding each other. I just like you. Every part of you. So if you don't like the sub stuff, the rough stuff, tell me, and we'll never do it again. I like being with you, period._

_Okay. I'm knackered. My head hurts. I'm dehydrated and still a bit drunk, I think. I'm going to stop making sense soon. I hope I've at least started to be honest enough with myself and with you that you can come back to bed. Back to me. That we can start fixing this. I miss you so much. I miss you so much I've barely slept all week. I can hardly think. I know this isn't the end of this discussion, but the beginning. I understand that. I just want to do the rest together, okay? Please._

_You've always helped me to be a better man before. Can you find it in you to help me one more time? Basically for the rest of our lives. Not that that's a big request or anything. (Trying funny again. You can tell me if it worked.)_

_You're still in the kitchen. I'm going to give this notebook to you, and then I'm going to go back to sleep, and I hope when I wake up, we can talk._

_I love you, and I miss you, and I was a right prick, and I'm so, so sorry._

John

***

The scent of basil and garlic, savory and deep, rouses John from a dreamless slumber. The bedroom is bathed in an orange glow, the sun setting outside. He rolls to his back, mouth feeling thick and sticky, his skin greasy. All the alcohol leaving his system. 

He stretches and his arm hits paper. The notebook. Sherlock's returned it. A bubble of apprehension expands in his stomach. The book is closed, with a slender brass bookmark protruding from the top. He picks it up and takes a deep breath, then opens it quickly to the bookmarked pages.

_I miss you too. I don't want to sleep on the sofa another night. I'll make pasta for dinner. Let's talk._

A relieved sob rises up in John's throat and he claps his hand over his mouth to stifle it before he realises he's not supposed to be doing that anymore. So he allows himself a few choking sobs and the tears that come with them before he passes his fingertips longingly over the indentations of Sherlock's messy scrawl.  

He closes the notebook carefully, and sets it on the nightstand. He's still stretching when the door creaks open and Sherlock's face appears in the crack. 

John's suddenly got a case of first date nerves. His stomach flutters. "Hi."

Sherlock smiles softly, blinks, and opens the door wider. "Hi. Thought you might be awake. Dinner's almost ready."

"Smells delicious." John chooses his words carefully, keeping his voice neutral, not sure yet of how much affection they're allowing tonight.

"Thank you. I hope so. You know I'm not the best cook, but. Pasta's fairly difficult to destroy, right? Do you want to get a shower before we eat?"

"Most definitely yes. Do I have time?" John fights the inclination to ask whether Sherlock wants to join him. They're not there yet.

"Yes, go ahead." Sherlock starts to close the door, hesitates. They stare at each other for a long moment, until Sherlock finally says, "I'm sorry this week has been so hard for you."

John nods, swallows past a hard lump in his throat. "Thank you. But. I needed it. You were right. About everything."

Sherlock nods back and his smile is gentle as he swings the door to closing, "We'll talk after dinner. Go get your shower. I have to go let the wine breathe."

John watches Sherlock go, knowing this will be hard, deeply emotional. He's cried in front if Sherlock many times, but not about them. Not about who they are, what they mean to each other. They just don't do that. No, correction. They _didn't_ do that. Now it's an imperative. This is new territory. 

As he scrubs the scent of tequila from his pores, the faint lingering odor of vomit from his hair, he tries to breathe deeply and let himself be open to this. To raw emotion, to his bare quivering fragile heart set on the table for Sherlock to see. To own. To dissect and parse out it's inner workings. This is true vulnerability, real trust. He's never let anyone see the parts of himself that he doesn't even want to see. He scrubs his hands hard over his face and tries to control the wild thrumming of his heart. 

He steps into the bedroom and sees his favourite jeans and his old red button down laid out on the bed. The one he was wearing when they had the fight. Sherlock's put them there, these specific clothes, to remind him. Of all the years they've been together, of what they've been through. The gesture is so profoundly thoughtful after the week they've had, that it nearly reduces him to weeping already. He pulls the jeans on, supple and well worn, and slides his arms into the slightly too loose arms of the button down - he weighed at least a stone more when they met. Running round with Sherlock all these years has worn away those soft lines, turned his stomach flat and his arms wiry and muscled. 

He looks at himself in the mirror, smoothes his hair. He feels like he's getting ready to go on a blind date. Which it actually sort of is. He's no idea what Sherlock is going to say, what he's going to say. His stomach is churning.

"John?" There's a soft tapping at the door. "Dinner's ready."

"Yes, I'm coming." John opens the door. Sherlock's standing there, his eyes dark in the dim hallway light, his hair haloed around his head the way it gets when he's had his fingers in it too much, a slight stain of red wine on his lips. He looks beautiful. The words are out of John's mouth before he can stop them. "You look lovely. Oh. I'm sorry. I probably shouldn't have. Not yet."

Sherlock tilts his head to the side in that painfully endearing way, and John's chest feels like its cracking open, bursting with love and contrition and all the things he wants to make sure he says slowly and the right way and also immediately and all at once. 

"You're my husband. Why shouldn't you tell me I look lovely?" Sherlock's eyebrow ticks up, amused, and a fractional amount of weight lifts from John's shoulders.

"I just wasn't sure. Where we were in all this."

"I'm not either, to be entirely honest. Let's just have dinner and then we'll sort it through." Sherlock brushes his fingers over John's hand as he turns away, but doesn't take it. It's much more heartbreaking than it should be.

The table is set with a candle in a chianti bottle, and John knows Sherlock did it on purpose, recalling that night at Angelo's a millennia ago. The start of them. The sentiment of that is a tremendous comfort. It's another reminder, of their immediate connection, of that bond that's been strained and twisted and frayed over the years, but never broken.. 

Dinner is quiet. Shy glances across the table, tentative smiles. A week of virtual silence has made them both unsure of how to behave, and the apprehension about the conversation that's soon to follow is looming over them. John keeps almost taking Sherlock's hand, then retracting, unsure of whether he can yet or not.

"Leave the dishes." John says quietly as Sherlock starts clearing the table. "Why don't we take our wine to the sofa? Better place to talk."

"Alright." Sherlock blinks and sighs, closes his eyes heavily.

"You ready for this?" John murmurs, wanting so badly to touch Sherlock, to reassure and comfort him.

"Yes. Just trying to organise my thoughts. There's a lot. A lot I want to say." Sherlock takes a long swallow of wine and refills his glass. "You know I don't normally, but."

"Yeah. I know the feeling." John holds out his own barely half empty glass and Sherlock fills it to the brim. "Well, now. That ought to see us through, yeah?"

Sherlock responds by bringing the wine bottle with them into the sitting room. The mood feels ominous. John's stomach starts to hurt again. They take positions on opposite ends of the sofa, and it feels like they're even farther apart than the meter between them.

John sips his wine and clears his throat. "So. Who should, um, begin?"

Sherlock sucks his lower lip between his teeth and inhales deep and fast. "I will."

"Alright." John's leg is jiggling in nervous anticipation. This calm dread is almost worse than the shouting row of last week.

"First, I truly appreciate you respecting my wishes to be left alone this week. It wasn't easy for either of us, but I think it was necessary."

"I agree." John's breath is coming in hard little gasps. He breathes out through his nose, trying to calm down. 

Sherlock gives him a tight smile. "I missed you terribly."

"I missed you terribly, too." 

"I read the journal. It was honest. More honest than I expected, truthfully. And I." Sherlock pauses, takes another drink of his wine and sets the glass on the coffee table. "I think it was true."

"Okay." John says slowly, "But...?"

"No but. I just want to make sure I address everything you said. I don't want to skip over anything." Sherlock reaches over to the side table and sets the little red notebook in his lap. "You said a lot of important things and..."

"I didn't even notice you'd taken that out of the bedroom." 

"Well, you're not the most observant of people." Sherlock smiles, a real smile, soft and fond, and John feels something loosen in his chest. 

"Thanks, sweetheart." The first endearment that's slipped from his lips in over a week. The first little joke between them. It feels familiar, and right, and Sherlock's smile doesn't falter. The ball of anxiety that's been a constant in John's stomach all week unravels a bit more.

"You're welcome."

"You know. We don't have to say everything tonight. This is just the start, right? We're going to work this out together, and we're married. We have our whole lives. Don't we?"

"I know. We do."

The conversation stutters to a halt. They're both struggling. With how to get this going, how to talk about all these awkward and ugly and painful things face to face. All John can think about is touching Sherlock, feeling his body heat, his weight against him. There's too much space. They're never like this - separated - they're forever in each other's personal space. Personal space is barely a concept that exists between them. It's always hands brushing, hips bumping, resting the lengths of their thighs together, leaning over each other's shoulders with their cheeks pressed together. This distance is foreign, and disconcerting.

"Sherlock." John sets his wine down and stretches his left arm across the back of the sofa, curling his fingers toward Sherlock. "Could you just? Just, _shit_ , come here. _Please_."

Wordlessly, Sherlock closes the space between them and tucks himself against John's side with a relieved sigh. He shuffles and burrows, folds his long legs up so his bent knees are leaned against the outside of John's thigh. His head presses against John's collarbone, curls tickling his neck. John lets out a long breath and wraps both arms around Sherlock's shoulders, and rests his cheek against the top of Sherlock's head. Calm sings down through his frayed nerves like a lullaby. _This_. This feels right.

"There we are." He murmurs in a hush. "Let's just stay like this for a while."

Sherlock hums and lets himself relax, sinking further into John’s embrace. John rubs a flat hand up and down Sherlock’s spine and breathes slowly, letting his body remember how it feels to have Sherlock here, with him, against him. The way they’ve only really been for such a short time in their long friendship, but it feels to John like it always was this way.

Perhaps just because it was always _supposed_ to be. 

After long stretched out minutes, Sherlock stirs, turns his face up, rubs his nose into John's neck. "I missed your smell."

“I missed yours.” John drops relieved kisses into Sherlock’s hair, over and over, his arms reflexively tightening around Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock’s fingers dance over the hem of John’s shirt, slipping dextrously under the worn cotton and brushing rhythmically against John’s belly. “Mmm. That feels good.”

Sherlock flattens his palm against John's skin and noses against his earlobe. Far too soon, their breath is quickening and Sherlock’s left leg is uncurling over John’s lap, his mouth wet against John’s throat, soft whimpers and sighs escaping them both as John turns his whole body toward Sherlock and their mouths meet hungrily. It’s only been a week, but the distance between them has been so great, so terrifying, that it feels like years since they touched each other this way. 

No. No, this isn’t how it’s supposed to go. They have important things to discuss. It can’t go this way.

“Sherlock. Mm, okay that’s really nice,” John gives in for a second, lets his head roll back against the sofa as Sherlock nudges and licks at his jaw, his tongue darting along John’s skin like a cat’s. “No, but really. Sherlock. Sherlock. Stop.”

Sherlock straightens up, the tip of his nose pink from dragging along John’s stubble. His mouth is wet, lips shining with saliva, and John’s heart gives an unsteady one-two beat against his ribs. 

“You’re right, John. I just…”

“Missed me.” John smoothes Sherlock’s mussed fringe away from his forehead as he nods in agreement, and kisses Sherlock once more on the mouth, “It’s nice to be missed. I missed you too, so much. We just needed to touch each other for a bit, I think, before we could talk. Feel better?”

“Yes. Much.” Sherlock smiles softly, more to himself than to John, and picks up John’s hand, threading their fingers together. “Now we should have this discussion. However - difficult - it may be.”

“Alright.” John sucks in a breath and closes his eyes. “Can I ask you something first? Since you read the journal, and you already have an idea about how I feel?”

“Certainly.” Sherlock squeezes John’s hand, rubs their thumbs together.

“What are _you_ getting out of this? I need you to tell me what I’ve done right, because. I feel like I’ve done every fucking thing wrong.” The quiver in his voice can’t be helped, emotions rising high already, and John clings to Sherlock’s hand in his like the anchor that it is.

“You haven’t done everything wrong, John.” Sherlock says tenderly, and inches closer, his hip digging into John’s thigh. “Not remotely.”

“I feel that way. I feel like I blundered into this with my eyes closed and just completely did it all wrong. I’ve always made everything about you. Even us, even our marriage, our lives.”

“Yes, you _do_ have to stop doing that.” There’s a hint of smile in Sherlock’s voice, but it’s fond, not mocking. 

“Can you tell me? Just _one_ thing I’ve done right?” He’s already pleading, the nasal tone he loathes creeping into his voice. He just needs to hear it so badly. Needs to know that there’s something he’s not made a total bollocks of.

“One thing? There are more than one, I promise you. First one.” Sherlock’s head tilts marginally to the side, and he wrinkles his nose that way he does when he’s thinking. “You make me feel safe.”

“Safe?” 

“Yes, safe. You’re strong, and brave, and you take care of me when I need taking care of. I know you’ll never leave. I know the fierceness with which you love me. You protect me, and you never mean to hurt me. Unless I want you to, of course. You - you - you surround me with your presence. Even when you’re not here, you’re here. You love me, and I _know_ that. I’ve never in my life had anyone I could just be with. Just be silent with. Just be in the same room with, and say nothing, and still be together. Those things make me feel - safe. And I never did, before you.” Sherlock stops talking, and John can see him trying to sift through his thoughts, pluck the granules of exactly what he wants to say and leave the rest behind.

At the risk of interrupting Sherlock’s thought process, he murmurs, “I’m glad you know those things.”

Sherlock’s eyes shift up to meet John’s. He looks at him through his thick black lashes, his expression so soft he looks nearly blurred, like a watercolour painting. He’s all golden pink in the dim light of the sitting room. All softness, gentle and sweet. Comforting. No one but John gets to see him this way. 

“I do. I’ve always known them. Even before - everything. Now it's elevated, it's enhanced by this, what we do. You tell me I've got you, and I believe it. I don't have to do anything. I can just be, and I know you I know you've got me, always." Sherlock breathes out in a rush. 

"Jesus, Sherlock. That's. That's. I'm so. I'm a little lost for words, sorry. Give me a second to - process that." A door's been unlocked for John. A room full of the why's and wherefores of this, never really understanding why Sherlock responded the way he did to John's praise, to his commanding nature. He feels like he's at least got his toe in the door of that secret room now. 

Sherlock stays quiet, reaches out and picks up his wine glass, sips patiently while John nibbles on his lower lip and tries to reform what Sherlock's said in his own words. It's fully dark outside now, the room is lit only by the pool of light cast by the floor lamp at the end of the sofa. They exist only in this space, in this moment together, the yellow glow of the light holding them in it.

At least that's how John feels. This is momentous, what's happening between them now. They're breaking down walls of misunderstanding that have been established since the day they met. They've never said anything so honest before, about how they really feel about each other. John's heartbeat is deafening in his ears.

"So. Being submissive to me, not just in bed, but all the time - your liking to shave for me and wash my hair for me and cook for me, all that - it makes you feel...what? I'm trying to really understand. I'm sorry I'm so thick." John takes a long warm pull of his wine. "Maybe it's the booze."

Sherlock chuckles quietly, shifts in his seat until he's facing away from John and looking at the unlit fireplace, the focus of the first "Be my good boy, Sherlock." The moment everything changed for them. Again. So many incarnations of who they are together - strangers, colleagues, friends, best friends, lovers, husbands - and they're still here, trying to make it right. It strikes John how few people get to experience love like this, the kind that's fire tested, that's truly unconditional. He swallows away the lump in his throat, puts a reassuring hand on the perfect curve of Sherlock's spine.

"You can tell me, sweetheart."

"I know I can. It’s not that. This isn’t easy for me to talk about either, John." Sherlock wriggles back into John's hand. "Submitting to you is simple for me. It's uncomplicated, really. Putting aside The Work for a moment, you are the purpose in my life. The only thing - person - I've ever loved enough to want to set aside my own needs. You being happy, you being happy with me, that's what brings me fulfillment. I want to cater to you, to what you want. I want you to always be pleased with me. And when you are, when you're pleased and proud of me, that's the most amazing feeling, John. It's like being high. It's flying. I've never felt anything like it before."

"I love you the same way, though, sweetheart. I always want to put you first. I get giddy when you're happy with me too. That's how it's supposed to be." John strokes his fingers up Sherlock's back, watching his shoulders contract with a shiver. "That's being in love. The way we’re in love, which is like nothing I've ever felt before either."

"So I'm not explaining this well, is what you're saying." A hint of frustration creeps into Sherlock's voice, his back muscles tensing under John's palm. 

"No. No, that's not what I'm saying. I'm just trying to understand the submissive part. Because I really need to. I need to understand how this works for you, so I do what I'm supposed to do and take care of you." John's not sure how or when the mood shifted, but he's feeling more sure footed. This, he's good at. Calming Sherlock, keeping him centered. Oh. In a rush of insight so sudden and complete that his brain almost aches, John understands.

"That's it," he says aloud.

"What?"

"Can I try? To explain what I think it is?"

Sherlock nods, but continues staring into the fireplace. John rubs small circles on his back. "You get frenetic. You get lost, inside your own enormous brain. You're hypersensitive. You feel everything, see everything, absorb everything. The world is a constant rush of input for you, just so much data, all the time. But this way, with what we do, I'm in control of how much stimuli you get. I tell you to go lie in a darkened room and calm down, you do it. Because I told you to, and you have to do what I say. I smack your arse until it's burning, and that's all you can think about. It's focus. You don't have to worry about all that input, because I do it for you. I control your input. There are boundaries, consequences if you don't do as you're told. That's comforting for you, to not be allowed to spin out of control. Yeah?"

A slow smile spreads across Sherlock's face. "John."

"Yeah?"

"You just _deduced_ me." 

John laughs loud and long, and Sherlock joins in after a moment, and it feels so good to laugh together that soon tears are rolling down John's cheeks and Sherlock can't catch his breath. John wipes his eyes, still sputtering a little bit, and asks, "Did I deduce you correctly?"

Sherlock sniffs and rubs his nose, still giggling. "Yes. Yes, you did quite well."

"Well, I _have_ learned from the master." 

"Aren't I supposed to call you that?"

"Oh god, don't you _ever_." 

Sherlock leans back into the curve of John's arm, rests his head against his shoulder. "In all seriousness, John, that was exactly what I was trying to say. Yes. I need the boundaries, I need the break from my own mind. It used to be...well. You know what it used to be. You're a much more effective and pleasant distraction than drugs. And you must know I would never permit anyone else this kind of control over me. It is entirely unique to you. Just you."

"Excuse the hubris, but I sorta figured." John trails his fingertips up and down the outside of Sherlock's upper arm, unable to stop touching him after the week's draught they've just endured. 

"Cheeky."

"Cheeky, _sir_." John smiles, half kissing at the side of Sherlock’s head.

"Shut up." Sherlock says without rancor, snuggling against John's side and tracing circles on his knee with three fingers.

"I really didn't get that before, you know. I really didn't. Thank you. Thank you for helping me understand why you need this." This is so easy, now that they're doing it, talking, really talking. So easy to be honest. Why did he think this was so difficult?

"I think you did most of the work, but you're welcome."

They're silent, both wondering what to say next. Sherlock speaks up first. "About The Work..."

"Yes. We do need to discuss that." 

There's a subtle tensing along the ridge of Sherlock's shoulders, where they're laying under John's arm. He remains silent, though. 

"Go ahead, love. I know it's not easy."

"No. It's not easy for me to challenge you, not here, anyway. But at work, it's different. You've always deferred to me, on cases. Always. That's how we work.  Until recently. You've been getting more and more assertive on crime scenes and while we're at The Yard, and I hadn’t honestly realised it was bothering me. Then last week happened." Sherlock pauses, chews on his bottom lip and squints. “I didn’t want to - question - you. But. Last week was a game changer for me, John.”

Sherlock looks uncomfortable. He pauses, gnawing his lip nearly raw.

John squeezes Sherlock’s fingers where they’re laying on his leg. "You’re not going to hurt my feelings. Well. You might, but I’ll get over it. It’s alright, sweetheart. Go on."

Sherlock turns his face up, watches John intently, "You realise they had the wrong man, John?"

"Oh god. No. I didn't. Greg never - I didn't really talk to anyone this week. Jesus. _That’s my fault._ My fault that happened. Jesus. Did anyone else..." It's gutting. He feels sick. The question he really wants to ask, if anyone else died because of his idiotic behaviour, he can't. Sherlock knows.

He scrambles to be reassuring, squeezing John's knee firmly. " No, no one else. It's alright now. I helped them get the right one, the one who'd been clever enough to create a frame up to cover his tracks. It was really quite inventive, you should have seen -" Sherlock stops at the expression on John's face. "Sorry. But without me... You see I _did_ have to stay."

"No, you're right. It's not my place to interfere with your brain work. I overstepped, and I fucked up the case. It was bollocks of me. Shit, I'm embarrassed as hell about it, Sherlock."

Sherlock doesn't argue that he shouldn't be embarrassed. Doesn't protest that he didn't fuck up the case. He knows those things are true, and Sherlock won't coddle him and tell him they're not. 

"Listen, John. I always want you by my side when I'm working. I missed your input and just your presence this week. Just having you nearby helps me to think better. You know that. But we can't _both_ be in charge. I think - well, I think it is very difficult for either of us to cede control, John."

John knows what Sherlock's hinting at, but he’s going to let him say it. "I think that's true."

Sherlock clears his throat nervously, fingers frozen on John's knee. "I propose a solution. A balance, if you will. While you are unquestionably the dominant partner in our private life, I propose myself as the dominant partner in our professional life. We both function better within the confines of structure and pre-negotiated boundaries. If we both agree I am the dom at work, then you must respect those limits. Or there will be consequences for you at work just as there are for me at home."

"You've been thinking about this for a long time, haven't you?" John says fondly, taking hold of Sherlock's chin and turning his head to face him. Sherlock's green grey eyes are glowing like raw emeralds in the semi darkness, searching John's, imploring him to understand, to agree. 

"Yes, a very long time. I think it's the most effective solution. For us. Because of how we are. Men who need externally imposed limits, because we don’t give ourselves any."

"So what would my consequences be?" John can hardly keep himself from smiling. He already knows he's going to agree.

Sherlock clears his throat. "Well. Being removed from cases. Being sent home. A suspension, if you will, from assisting me."

"Because you know I can't bear that."

"Yes." Sherlock looks apprehensive.

"Anything else?"

"No. I think that would be effective enough, don't you?"

John considers for just a moment, then gives Sherlock a heartfelt grin. "You're bloody brilliant, you know that?"

Sherlock's mask of nervousness breaks open into a wide smile, his eyes crinkling up at the edges. "You may have mentioned it once or twice. So. You agree?"

“I agree.” John tucks his fingertips into the hollow of Sherlock’s jaw and pulls him forward, brushes their mouths together frightfully gently, barely a kiss. “One caveat,” He murmurs against Sherlock’s parted lips.

Sherlock pulls back enough that they can see each other’s faces, his own quizzical. “Alright.”

“Not if you, or anyone else, is in immediate danger. The brain work, yes, absolutely, I will shut my fat mouth and never ever again interfere. Even if you’re falling over with exhaustion, I will be a good boy and just silently bring you coffee. I will do everything you tell me to and nothing that you don’t. But I’m the muscle in this, right? And I love you, and you’re my husband. So. If someone’s got a knife at your throat, don’t think for _one second_ that I’m going to wait for your permission to blow his fucking head off.”

Sherlock crooks that half smile at John, all sparkling eyes and cockiness. “Alright, Captain. I give you carte blanche permission to shoot people who are threatening your husband.”

“Thank you.” John’s wine glass is empty. He’s feeling more than a little relaxed, and more comfortable with himself than he has, maybe ever. “This is good for us, you know. The dom/sub stuff. It just suits who we are. I _have_ been afraid of it before, but I’m ready to not be.”

“It’s not traditional. That’s a difficult concept for you. You can get...stuck…on ideas about how things should be, as opposed to how things actually are.”

“I agree. You’re right. I realised that’s a real problem for me. And what we do, well. It’s not a traditional...anything. That’s been hard for me to accept.”

Sherlock empties the bottle into their glasses and leans back across the sofa, sipping thoughtfully. His long legs stretch across John’s lap as he rubs his socked feet against each other. “No. It’s not a typical relationship, and it’s not even a typical sub/dom arrangement either. I spent a lot of time reading contracts and first hand accounts when we began, and what we do is very different. Our terminology is unique to us, and we’re...more...equal, still, than most sub/dom relationships in the accounts I read.”

“I’m glad of that. That we’ve made this our own. Even if we’ve royally fucked up along the way.” 

"Many subs are referred to as slaves. Agreed upon by both parties, and entered into willingly, but."

"I could never." Just the thought of that. Calling his precious Sherlock a slave, thinking of him that way. Sherlock is a fragile thing, beautiful and rare. He's to be treasured, protected, held with gloved hands like a priceless antique. "No, that's not us at all."

"I know, John." Sherlock smiles at John's furrowed brow, brushes his fingertip over the bridge of his nose. "I wasn't suggesting it. Merely explaining that other couples do things differently."

"If I ever treat you like a slave, I want you to slap some sense into me, alright?" 

Sherlock barely registers the comment. John can see the gears still turning in his mind. “Our sex though...is relatively vanilla, comparatively, to much of what I read. I wouldn't mind - going a bit - farther in that area.”

“Excuse me? Vanilla?” John sputters, sitting up a bit straighter, resting his elbow on Sherlock’s thigh and leaning forward. “We have done things I never even dreamed of, Sherlock. Bloodplay? Bondage? I mean. Are you serious right now?”

“Yes. Very.” Sherlock digs his toes under John’s thigh, and burrows lower on the sofa. “You'd like to push me. You'd like to push _yourself_. But you’ve been afraid. Of yourself. Of what you’re capable of if we took it beyond the occasional spanking. I've never been afraid, just so you know. I know you'd never go too far.” 

A very slight flush crawls up John’s cheeks. It’s been a week. They normally have sex at least once a day, sometimes more. He’s tipsy and warm, and Sherlock’s toes are wiggling under his arse, and they're talking about sex. A warm tingle trickles down the back of his neck and spreads across his shoulder blades. “You know I may not be able to keep my hands to myself if we have this conversation.”

“Well,” Sherlock’s voice dips an octave lower, warm and sweet as melted chocolate, and he rocks his hips slowly from side to side against the leather cushions. “I believe we are due for some make up sex.”

“Fuck yes.” John growls, and sets his wine on the table clumsily, sloshing some over the sides of the glass. He flips and crawls up Sherlock’s body until he’s bracketed between Sherlock’s bent legs. Sherlock’s neck looks so inviting, creamy above his dark shirt collar. John finds his pulse and nips at it with his teeth, rubs his lips back and forth as the heat stirs in his belly. “I love you.”

Sherlock’s hand finds the back of John’s head, fingers carding through his hair as he arches his neck toward John’s mouth. “I love you, too.” 

“I love you so fucking much, Jesus Christ, Sherlock. When you were so angry with me last week, I really thought -” 

“I know. Shhh. Never. I would _never_.” Sherlock turns his face into John’s hair and kisses him, lays one long hand possessively against his hip. “Not again.”

“I believe you.” John nudges Sherlock’s face up to his, and their mouths meet in a tumult of need, biting and pulling at each other’s lips. The sensation of kissing Sherlock has always been overwhelming, but this. It’s like finding each other all over again. John’s head is buzzing with electricity, one long droning note in his ears, blocking out everything except Sherlock’s lips enveloping his own, Sherlock’s wine-sour tongue in his mouth, Sherlock’s nose bumping his as they tilt their heads to deepen the kiss.

Sherlock works his hands in between them and begins unbuttoning John’s shirt, still sucking hard on John’s lower lip. “Shall I - _uuhhhh_ \- tell you?”

John pushes Sherlock’s head up, nibbles down his jaw. “Tell me what, baby?” 

“How I’d like you to - _oh god_ \- push me?” Sherlock rasps, John greedily lapping at the hollow between his neck and his collarbone. 

“Yes, god, yes, tell me,” John shifts to the side, laying against Sherlock’s hip, and buries his face into Sherlock’s neck. “Don’t mind me. I’m just going to do this while you talk...”

Sherlock whimpers at the first pull of his skin between John’s teeth, the sweet pleasure-pain of blood vessels breaking. “I want you to push my limits, see how much I can take. I want you to - _ahh, oh god_ \- call me names, filthy, debauched names, and spank me until I have welts, and leave me on my knees next to the bed for hours waiting for you, and I want you to - oh fuck, John, Jesus -”

Sherlock bucks up as John’s fingers close around his erection through his trousers. The bruise on his neck is blossoming purple and red, blood spreading hot under his skin.

“Keep going -” John husks out, rubbing himself against Sherlock’s hip and mouthing at his collarbone, “You have no fucking idea what this is doing to me.”

“Oh, I think I have - some idea. I want you to finger me until I’m absolutely wailing for you touch me and then don’t, leave me there begging for it until I’m crying. I want you to fuck my mouth until I’m choking on it, until I can barely breathe, until my throat goes hoarse. I want you to hurt me until I’m begging you to stop, and then I want you to keep going. I want so much, John. And now that you’re not afraid, not afraid of yourself, of who you are, I know you want it too. I know you can give me those things. Oh god.” Sherlock’s breathy words dissolve into a high pitched whine as John bites into his shoulder and squeezes his cock at the same time.

“Jesus fucking Christ. I would never - I would never have suggested any of that, but. God. Sherlock.” John shivers against Sherlock’s side, presses open mouthed kisses down his shirt, soaking the fabric. “I do want to do all of those things to you. It's still so hard to say that, I feel like I shouldn't. But I do. God, how I do. But. There will be hard lines, and safewords, and all of that. For both of our sakes, alright?”

“Alright. Yes." Sherlock trails a soft fingertip down the side of John's cheek. "John?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“I would really, _really_ like you to take me to bed now.” Sherlock twists the back of John’s shirt in his fist and pulls him back on top of him. “Please.”

“Oh, Christ, me too. I missed you so much this week. So fucking much.” John sits up, and drinks in the sight of Sherlock reclined on the sofa, kissed breathless, his cheeks flushed and glowing, his throat already reddened by bruises and bitemarks, “You are so beautiful."

Sherlock strokes John’s face and whispers, “So are you.”

They tumble into bed, not actually in the mood to do any of the things they'd talked about trying. Just seeking closeness, and connection. The clothes come off perfunctorily, no long seductive teases, just pulling off shirts and unbuckling belts as quickly as possible. John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist and pulls him down, rolling to their sides to face each other, running their fingers all over each other's faces, kissing messily, biting at each other's tongues. John hooks his leg high over Sherlock's hip and sucks Sherlock's index and middle fingers into his mouth long enough to thoroughly wet them.

"There. I've been waiting all week to have those gorgeous fingers up my arse.” John can barely breathe as Sherlock’s hand snakes between his legs and two wet fingers stroke softly at his perineum for a moment and then press into him. “Oh god, Sherlock.”

Sherlock finds the most sensitive place on his jaw, mouthing wet kisses all over his neck, as his fingertips brush over John’s prostate with practiced ease. “Good?” He breathes out against John’s throat.

“So good, baby, Christ. You’re going to make me come already.” His voice catches on every word. Wracked with shivers, he reaches past Sherlock and yanks the bedside drawer open, fumbles for the lube, “Oh God. Fuck. _Fuuuuuck_.”

He can't get this done fast enough. Sherlock presses a third finger inside him and it burns and he can feel the stretch and - _oh fuck_ \-  Sherlock’s moaning too, high pitched and broken, rocking his hips against John’s stomach as John pushes down onto his fingers, and then finally, finally, he’s able to flip the cap on the lube and drizzle it haphazardly all over both of them before he throws it behind him and hears it bounce off the bed and hit the floor. 

"Fuck, I want you." John growls, already holding back the orgasm that's shivering it's way through his nervous system, reaching between them and slicking them with lube even as he tenses and pushes back against Sherlock's hand, trying to get him deeper. 

"Me too, John, oh god, I wanted you all week and I...I almost came in our room so many - _oh_ \- times, but." Sherlock's speech is coming on short puffs of air, sucking and biting at John's chest, everything between them right now frenetic heat and want. 

"Deeper baby, I want you so deep inside me," John wraps his hand, just barely large enough to fit, around both of them, and gives a long firm pull that sends waves of heat spiraling through his nerves. Sherlock jerks and gasps, sinks his teeth into John’s jaw, presses his fingers deeper until the knuckles of his hand are hard against John's arse. John works their cocks faster, knowing exactly how Sherlock likes it, stroking from base to tip and twisting just that much at the head.

“Oh. Oh, John.” Sherlock’s fingertips bite into his shoulder, his fingers inside John twitch and then still as the muscles in his arms go stiff.

John can feel the delicious swell of Sherlock’s cock alongside his own, the wetness of his precome spreading sticky between his fingers as he approaches orgasm. “Sherlock. Sherlock. Come, love, come on. I want to see you, I want you all over me, come on,” He pants, desperate for him, desperate for this, this confirmation of who they are together, that they’re going to be alright. 

Sherlock sobs once, ragged and choked, as his fingers contract inside John. The sound of Sherlock’s pleasure and the pressure on his prostate are too much. He feels himself tipping over, his limbs shaking, hot chills racing over his skin. “Sherlock, I -” John comes with a bitten off whine, his leg wrapped tight around Sherlock's hip, fucking himself on Sherlock’s fingers and biting into his lip until the skin snaps under his teeth. 

“ _John_. John, oh my god. I love you.” Sherlock grinds his head back into the pillow, his fingers in a vice grip on John's shoulder. 

John lets go of his own now oversensitive cock, and takes Sherlock in his sticky hand, thumbs over the head. "That's it, my sweet boy, that's it."

The endearment is what pushes Sherlock over the precipice, as John knew it would. His thighs go rigid as he thrusts forward into John's fist and chokes out a ragged groan, pulsing out hot and perfect, spurting onto his own stomach, dripping down off John's still tensed fingers onto the sheets.

John’s forehead bangs against Sherlock’s as they both curl forward over the the mess they’ve made between them. “ _Jesus_.” John breathes out slowly, clenching around Sherlock’s fingers as he withdraws them. 

“That - was -” John huffs, closing his eyes and nudging his nose against Sherlock's. 

“ _Fast_.” Sherlock grins, his eyes still closed, and slaps John’s hip playfully. “Barely ten minutes I think.”

“Yeah, well. Next time, we shouldn’t wait a week.” John tips his face forward to catch Sherlock's mouth in a kiss that's all breath, their lips tingling and bruised from the ferocity of what came before.

Sherlock shifts, wipes at their stomachs with the sheet and shrugs. "Clean enough for now?"

"I certainly don't feel like moving. Come here, love." John rolls to his back, pulling Sherlock alongside him, reminded of how naturally their bodies fit together. The way the swell of John's bicep tucks into the curve of Sherlock's neck, the hollow of Sherlock's stomach aligning against the crest of John's hipbone.

Sherlock nuzzles into John’s chest, breathes in deeply. “I think you should keep journalling.”

“Yeah?”

"Yeah. And letting me read it.”

“Okay.” John rubs a thumb over the hard bump of Sherlock’s sacrum and sighs, drowsy and contented. Sherlock says he always falls asleep after sex, and that’s true. The rush of dopamine is as powerful as a narcotic. He just can’t stay awake. 

“You’re much more articulate in writing.” Sherlock absently circles John’s right nipple with his index finger, flexes his toes against John’s calf. 

“Hm. I feel like that’s an insult, but I’m too sleepy to sort it at the moment.”

Sherlock chuckles quietly, "It's not an insult. I think you just need time to think, and sometimes when we're talking, you don't have that time. Reading your journal today was enlightening. And...intimate. I know you better than I did this morning, John. And," Sherlock's voice drops into a hush, his head nuzzling under John's arm in small circles, "I want to know everything about you. _Everything_."

"Everything." John mumbles, already half asleep, "Okay, baby, whatever you want."

"I'm going to go clean up those dishes -" Sherlock's cut short as John's arm tightens around him and yanks him back down.

"Not as asleep as you thought." John opens one eye and cocks a grin. "If you think, after spending a week alone in this bed, that I'm going to let you just get up and leave me after fifteen minutes...No. You're staying right here with me."

"But..." Sherlock gives a half hearted protest and allows John to roll him on his back. 

"Right." John pins Sherlock's hands over his head. "Here." Licks at his left nipple. "With." Tongue over his Adam's apple, making him squirm. "Me." Sinks his tongue between Sherlock's lips, warm and languorous. 

"You can be the little houseboy tomorrow, okay? Right now, you aren't going anywhere. I plan to fall asleep just like this." John stretches lazily, his left leg folding over top of Sherlock's outstretched one and his head coming to rest heavily in the curve between Sherlock's neck and shoulder. He feels sated and sticky, pleasantly wanton, tangled in musky smelling sheets, all damp skin and sweaty tendrils of hair. 

Sherlock's pulse thumps comfortingly familiar at John's forehead, and soon he feels Sherlock relaxing, too. His hand drops off John's shoulder and flops onto the bed, followed by the sound of delicate little snores. John smiles and burrows closer, allows himself to fall asleep and forces himself not to dwell on the traitorous and confusing anxiety plucking at the edges of his contentment.


	3. Chapter 3

Their new arrangement works shockingly well. John's always been a man of rules and regs. He craves order and definition. Knowing his place on cases, having his role so clearly defined, is comforting. Grounding. The first time he dares to challenge Sherlock at work is a few weeks in. John offers a different interpretation of evidence, and Sherlock entertains him for a while, becoming increasingly terse as John continues to argue his point. Eventually Sherlock turns his back and begins to walk away, a clear dismissal. John grabs at his sleeve to make him listen, and Sherlock rounds on him with fire in his eyes, his voice dead calm, "Shall I send you home, then?" 

The ripple of arousal that courses through him makes his mouth drop open and he licks his lips and sucks the bottom one into his mouth, crosses his arms over his chest, trying to cover it. "No." 

Sherlock levels a bored stare at him and bites out, "Good. Then shut up."

John barely stops himself from answering "Yes, sir."

They finish up late, the tube is closed, and for once they can't find a cab. It's a cool night, their blood is pumping from the case, so they decide to just walk. Nearly home at three in the morning, Sherlock suddenly stops and unceremoniously yanks John into a dead end alley in the middle of Marylebone, leads them back until the light from the streetlamp is no longer visible, and shoves him face first against the wall. John gasps out a "Sherlock, what're you -" 

Sherlock cuts him off with a snarl against the back of John's head. "You wanted this at the crime scene, didn't you? Wanted me. Don't argue." 

John doesn't even think of arguing, instead just gasps out a quiet whimper of concession. He's already hard, shivering against Sherlock's hand pressed between his shoulder blades. He nods against the rough bricks and Sherlock grunts in acknowledgement. Then Sherlock's deft fingers are at his flies, while with the other hand, he twists John's arms together at the small of his back. Low and dangerous, Sherlock's voice growls in his ear. "Don't make one sound. Not one." John bites into his tongue to keep from moaning, his breath shuddering loudly through his nostrils. His arms ache, but this is new and just this side of frightening, and he dares not say anything. 

Sherlock slides John's jeans and pants over his hips, bunching them at his ankles, and then moulds himself against John's back. The night air is cold against John's bare skin where Sherlock's coat doesn't fall over him. There's a fumbling of knuckles and fingernails nicking at him, a rustle of fabric, the clink of a belt buckle hitting the concrete, and Sherlock's hard velvet smooth cock is laying flush in the crease of John's arse. It feels gloriously filthy, his body responding to Sherlock before his brain can catch up to what's happening. He arches into Sherlock's embrace, groans in his throat while keeping his lips pressed tightly together to try and contain the noise. 

Sherlock's hand is immediately over his mouth. "I thought I told you not to make a sound. Or should I stop?" John shakes his head, fighting the urge to rip Sherlock's hand away from his face. He could easily get out of this if he wanted to. He _doesn't_ want to, though, and that's the most unsettling part, the part he can't wrap his mind around. It's never once been this. Even when Sherlock's fucking him, John's in control. This is completely out of the realm of John's understanding of their sex dynamics, but all he can really think about right now is Sherlock hot and hard against his bare arse, and how much he wants this.

"Good," Sherlock purrs, lips moving against John's ear. "Because I _really_ don't want to stop." The hand over his mouth shifts, and Sherlock's fingers flicker against his lips. He automatically opens his mouth, receiving two long cold fingers jabbing against his soft palate. "Suck." He does, laving his tongue over knuckles, poking at the web of skin between them, as Sherlock rocks against him. There's a growing wetness where Sherlock's prick is already leaking onto his back, more thrusting now than rocking. Sherlock's fingers are out of his mouth, and before he can even register it, they're parting his arse cheeks and pushing roughly into him. His whole body tenses against the shock of it and he presses up on his toes, scraping his face against the bricks. 

Sherlock's other hand releases his wrists, and John realises Sherlock's going to put it back over his mouth. The pressure is confusingly welcome, even as a flutter of panic stirs in his chest at being restricted to breathing through his nose. Sherlock's voice comes surprisingly gentle. "Okay? Just nod if it's okay."

John nods tightly, pushes himself down eagerly on Sherlock's fingers, and Sherlock breathes out hard, drops his forehead to John's shoulder, twists his wrist just so, and rubs his finger over John's prostate. Heat sparks through his belly and back, a beautiful tension spiraling tendrils down his thighs. An "Oh, fuck," tries to escape him, but Sherlock's palm is pressed hard over his lips and all that comes out is a muffled grunt. His hips jut forward, and the tip of his cock makes contact with the brick wall. He whines in discomfort, jerks backward, his head spinning with arousal and a small amount of fear at himself, his reactions, the fact that they're only three meters away from a public sidewalk, Sherlock's hand still clamped tight over his mouth, his chin and the bottom of his nose smeared with saliva.

"Shhhh. It's okay." Their roles are completely reversed, Sherlock murmuring words John's heard come out of his own mouth so many times. His adrenaline is spiking, his breath coming in short little gasps through his flaring nose, his skin burning even as he shivers in the cold air. He tries to say "Please," ends up just licking at Sherlock's palm.

"I know. I know. Shhh. Don't make a sound." Sherlock takes his hand away, leaving John's face wet and cold, and grips his hip tightly as he kicks John's feet as wide as they can go, John's jeans around his ankles restricting him.  "Put your hands against the wall." John does as he's told, bracing himself with his hands and taking his raw cheek away from the bricks. Sherlock rolls his forehead against John's neck, kisses at him gently. "Just hold still. We don't have anything. I'm going to get you wet enough to take me." 

Sherlock slides quickly down John's back, his knees bumping John's calves, sliding his fingers out of him and replacing them with his tongue. He pushes at the inside of John's thighs, and John spreads his knees wider, his cock twitching against his stomach. He tries desperately hard not to make a sound as Sherlock sucks at him and thrusts his tongue in quick dirty jabs. Sherlock licks all the way up to the small of his back as he stands up, stopping only when he reaches the hem of John's jacket, and then he's draping over him, one arm stretching out over John's to brace himself against the wall, and the other guiding his cock slowly inside. "Oh god, you're tight, Jesus, John." 

John has to bite into his upper arm to keep from shouting out as the thick head of Sherlock's cock presses inexorably into him. "You can take it, I know you can." Sherlock breathes out, and then thrusts home with such force that John loses his footing and skids sideways, before Sherlock's hand closes around his hip and holds him up. John's so full, so suddenly, that it's not quite comfortable. He can't help the hoarse whimper that escapes him, and before he can even question why he's saying it, he chokes out "I'm sorry," but Sherlock kisses his neck and his hair, rolling his hips in sinful little circles that make John's entire lower body buzz with pleasure "It's okay. It's fine. You're perfect. I want you to come for me now." 

John knows somewhere in the more complex parts of his brain that he's said that exact phrase to Sherlock hundreds of times, that this isn't how it goes, that it's him who gives the orders and Sherlock who takes them, but his hindbrain has completely taken over and all he can do in reply is let his head fall back silently against Sherlock's shoulder and nuzzle at the side of his face. He remembers he's not supposed to make a sound, so he doesn't, just flicks his tongue at Sherlock's cool cheek and tries to breathe through the sublime electric tension that contracts his lungs every time Sherlock moves inside him.

"Anyone could see us right now, you know. _Anyone_. We're barely even hidden." Sherlock hums against John's ear.

Oh God, that thought shouldn't be such a turn on, but it is, it really is. Sherlock slides his hand from John's hip around to take hold of his painfully hard prick. His hand is warm, so warm against John's exposed flesh, and he thumbs over the slit, spreading precome over the head, and then starts stroking him firmly in counterpoint to the rolling of his hips. John curls forward, the top of his head pressed against the wall, his stomach muscles contracting as he starts to come. "That's it, John. Tight, you're so _tight_ around me, oh god." Sherlock sucks messily at John's earlobe, trailing spit that chills his neck in the moist cool night. 

Sherlock’s grip around him tightens, and John’s consciousness wavers for a microsecond, whiteness at the edges of his vision as every muscle in his body spasms and Sherlock’s voice is rough at his ear, “That’s it, let it all out, everything you’ve been holding back, come on, John. Scream for me, scream.” Sherlock punctuates the last word with a sharp thrust of his hips, and John obeys, howling raggedly against their entwined arms as he pulses hot over Sherlock’s fingers and shakes and shakes and shakes. John's howls fade into quiet sobs and then into silence. The only sound in the alley now is the slap of their flesh, echoing in the empty corners of the dead end. 

He’s still shaking when Sherlock takes his hand off John’s softening prick and puts it sticky on his hip, wrenching him backwards. "Fuck. Fuck, you feel so good." Sherlock only curses when he's viciously angry or when he's about to come. Sherlock drives into him, so hard, harder than he’s ever done before, and John feels used, knows he’s purely for Sherlock’s pleasure right now and nothing else. That thought is obscenely and confusingly erotic. John allows himself to get lost in sensation, the rhythmic smack of Sherlock’s thighs against his, the pressure of Sherlock’s fingers between his own against the wall, the scrape of the uneven bricks against his knuckles. 

This is brutal, and beautiful. He's being _taken_ , sublime in its ferocity. Sherlock’s rhythm speeds up suddenly, falters. “John. Oh - oh -   _John_.” Sherlock husks out with his teeth at John’s neck, and he stiffens, nails digging sharply into John’s skin. John feels the wet heat rushing into him and then out, trickling down the insides of his thighs as Sherlock pulls out and leans his weight against John’s back, gasping. 

John slowly comes back to himself, his limbs heavy, the adrenaline dissipating, and he realises they’re in an alley with their cocks out, after having some spectacularly loud sex. This is a recipe for disaster, and possibly arrest. “Sherlock, we need to pull up our fucking trousers and go home. Right now.”

Sherlock laughs against his back and rubs his lips sweetly over John’s nape for not even close to long enough. “Yes, I quite agree.” 

Sherlock lurches off of him, and John bends down to pull his pants and jeans up, a creeping sense of humiliation spreading through him. Sherlock glances at him out of the side of his eye as he’s buckling his belt. “You okay?”

John swallows, tries not to look ashamed. “Yeah. You?”

Sherlock tilts his head in acknowledgment, and smirks, reminding John of a nobleman who just took advantage of the milkmaid in the barn. Proud and lascivious. “I’m fantastic.”

Sherlock takes John’s hand as they emerge from the alley and threads their dirty, sticky fingers together. John looks at his watch. Barely 3:30. Only a half hour has passed since Sherlock dragged him off the sidewalk, but it may as well be a lifetime. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. His absolutely gorgeous husband just shagged him senseless against a wall, and they're walking home hand in hand, and everything should feel perfect. Instead, everything feels different. He’s silent on the walk home. Sherlock keeps watching him, surreptitiously, and John can practically _feel_ the concern radiating off of him. 

They get home and collapse into bed after almost twenty four hours without sleeping. John’s eyes are burning and his arse is burning and he doesn’t have the energy to take his clothes off even though they're filthy and his pants are soaked with semen and will be uncomfortably plastered to his skin when he wakes up. Sherlock doesn't shower, but he does slip into his pyjamas, and then burrow up behind him, as John knew he would, making himself small against John’s back. “John?”

“Hmmm.” John grunts, so tired he’s on the verge of feeling nauseous, the room spinning a little. 

Something hard traces a circle on his shoulder blade. His brain is working so slowly, it takes him a moment to realise it’s Sherlock’s finger. “Are you upset? About - what happened on the way home?”

John’s got neither the desire nor the energy right now to discuss this. Though he registers a trace of annoyance that Sherlock phrases it that way - _what happened_ \- as though Sherlock had nothing to do with it. “No. I’m just - It was good.”

“But you feel uncomfortable about it.” Sherlock’s voice is tired too, and hesitant. It’s been weeks since their big discussion, and they’ve somewhat fallen back into old patterns of communication. John has been journaling, as Sherlock suggested, and they've talked some, but nothing close to that first soul baring conversation. They also haven’t done anything sexually that’s out of their normal habits, until tonight. 

“Look, we’re both knackered right now. We got up at five, and it's almost five again. We need sleep.” John flips heavily so he can face Sherlock, all wide bloodshot eyes and softly rumpled tee shirt, his hair wind blown and curled in soft messy waves around his face. John can’t possibly feel irritated with him. He yawns and presses a kiss to Sherlock’s chapped lips. “I love you, and that was mind blowingly good sex, okay? It was a surprise, is all. We can talk about it tomorrow. I just very much need to go to sleep now.”

“Okay, John.” The cold whip smart detective, the powerful rutting stag in the alley, have both vanished, replaced by this more lately familiar version of Sherlock, smiling and warm, happily snuggled against John’s chest, sleepily blinking his eyes and throwing a gangly leg over John’s hip. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.” John presses a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead and idly spins his wedding band around his finger, wondering what it really is about tonight that’s making his stomach twist in anxious knots. 

***

The next morning John’s sore and and stiff, everything aching, his eyelids feeling much more like sandpaper than skin. He wakes up late, nearly noon, and Sherlock's gone. He checks his phone and there's a text, _Mycroft rang, seemed like it could be interesting. There's half a bakewell tart in the fridge for you. Love you._ The domesticity of the message is soothing to his still slightly jangled nerves, and he reads it over several times before crawling out of bed to get a shower. 

In the loo, steam billowing out of the shower around him, he squints at himself in the mirror. He looks like he was in a pub brawl. There’s a bruise under his eye where he supposes his face must have bashed into the wall, though he doesn’t remember it. The rough pebbled texture of the brick left scratches and welts all down the right side of his face. His bottom lip is swollen. 

The hot water burns his hand as he steps under, and he flexes his fingers, watching as water cascades over scraped knuckles and torn fingernails. If someone had told him even a month ago that he'd have injuries from Sherlock pushing him against a brick wall and fucking him like an animal in heat, he would have laughed in their face before he punched them in the mouth for talking about his husband that way. It definitely happened, though, and his aching body is evidence. He groans loudly, rolling his shoulders under the hot water and trying to relax. He's going to need ibuprofen. Forty something year old men should not engage in half the things John does on a regular basis, and occasionally his body lodges a stringent objection. 

The conflicting emotions in him are confusing as hell. He can’t shake the sense of embarrassment at being fucked up against a wall with Sherlock’s hand over his mouth. No. It’s not embarrassment at that. It’s embarrassment at how much he liked it. That he wouldn’t mind if it happened that way again. That he would in fact _like it very much_ if it happened that way again. His arms pinned behind him, Sherlock whispering rough commands in his ear. His cock stirs just at the memory of last night, and he quickly finishes washing and wraps a towel around himself. Having a wank about it would just make everything even more muddled. 

He pulls on his loosest, softest jeans, and Sherlock’s blue dressing gown over his bare chest. It smells like Sherlock; cinnamony and sharp, clean sweat and strong black tea. He pulls the collar up over his nose and breathes Sherlock in as he shuffles into the kitchen. The electric kettle is half full of water, and Sherlock’s set John’s favourite mug next to it with two teabags already in the bottom. 

He makes the tea strong, letting it steep until there’s little swirls of oil from the leaves spinning across the surface, and settles in his chair. There’s some random rugby match on the telly, and he stares at it, washing down soggy bites of bakewell with scalding tea. He sets the plate on the floor and pulls the little red journal off the side table, opens it to a blank page. He doesn't address the entries to Sherlock anymore, though Sherlock reads every one. 

_April 12th_

_Sherlock wasn't kidding about the dom at work business. I hadn't really tested it until last night, and I felt like I was in boot camp, being corrected by a staff sergeant. Which I hadn't remembered being quite as erotic as it is when it's your husband. After was very different. He was different. I've never seen him like that with me outside of The Work. Commanding. I can't really put everything into words right now. I felt confused last night. Today it's clearer, but I still don't have my thoughts really organised enough. All I know is that it's another level to this, what we do, how we live, and Sherlock was definitely right when he told me that being in this kind of a relationship wouldn't simplify anything. In fact, things just seem to get more and more complicated. That's not a negative. Last night was complicated and confusing, but I think it was important. For us. I haven't sorted it all out, but I guess it's not really for me to sort out. It's for both of us. Just the two of us, like always._

John shuts the book, out of words for the moment, but it feels as though something has clicked in his mind. He feels calmer, his reservations about last night blossoming into a new level of understanding about them, and curls up, wrapping Sherlock’s dressing gown around him. He doesn’t realise he’s fallen asleep again until he’s blinking, and Sherlock’s eyes are startlingly close to his own. He’s kneeling in front of John’s chair, his feet folded gracefully under his bum, head cocked to the side. 

“You’re wearing my dressing gown.” Sherlock smiles, beaming affection and warmth, and draws his thumb over John’s bottom lip. “You _do_ look dashing in blue. But you know that.”

John’s mouth is thick, his neck aches from being crooked against the chair. He rubs at his eyes and sits up. “Oh yes, I feel very dashing right now. What time is it?”

“About three. When did you get up?”

“Noon. Guess I needed more sleep.” He pulls the dressing gown around him and grins. "I missed you. Your dirty dressing gown seemed like the best substitute." 

Sherlock runs his hand over John's cheek lightly. "Your face, John. You're all bruised."

John smiles, biting back a laugh, some of the tension about last night evaporating. "Well, _you_ did it."

"Sorry." Sherlock goes for apologetic, but ends up grinning proudly.

"Prat." 

Sherlock doesn't say anything, just bends forward and lays his head on John’s knee. John’s fingers reflexively card through soft black curls, scratching at his scalp. Sherlock hums and wraps his arms around John’s thighs.

“Hey, snuggly.”

“I missed you too.” Sherlock raises his head and looks up at John, his eyes soft grass green. “I’d like to talk, if you're amenable. About last night, and about, well, some other things.” 

"You're not going to tell me about what happened with Mycroft at all? Do we have a case on?"

"Yes, we can talk about that later. It looks to be a rather drawn out affair. A four at most, more like a three and a half. Wasn't really necessary for me to go out this morning. I should have stayed in bed with you."

"Yes, you should have.” John's thumb passes over the helix of Sherlock's ear, silky smooth and cool from being outside.  

Sherlock lays his head down again, curls his fingers over the curve of John’s hip. He wastes no time getting to the point. “So, you’re embarrassed about last night. About being the submissive partner.”

“No. Well. Maybe I was a bit after it happened. I’m not now.” John searches for that sense of shame he felt last night walking home, but it's gone. “It was just. Very unexpected. I’ve never seen you like that.”

“Well.” Sherlock grins; John can feel it against his thigh, the happy little wiggle of his head, and suddenly John can’t believe he was ever embarrassed even for a second to have this beautiful, perfect creature do whatever he wanted to him. “I think it was kind of, leftover. From being at work. When I told you to shut up, you blushed. I swore for a second you were going to salute me. It was devastatingly sensual.”

“So we’ve come round to the military kink, have we?” John laughs, and Sherlock swats at his hip. 

“So you wouldn’t mind if we -” Sherlock trails off.

“Fucked in an alley after a case with your hand over my mouth again? No. I don’t think I would mind a jot.” John leans down and puts his lips close to Sherlock’s ear, “But if you try that on me at home I’ll remind you very quickly and painfully who’s the dom in this flat.”

Sherlock swallows hard and when he looks up at John again, his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are black, round and wide. Just the way John likes him, his wide eyed pet. John’s sweet boy, eager to please. Compliant. John’s breath immediately quickens. 

“I want you to.”

“Want me to what, sweetheart?” Already slipping into the endearments that feel so natural in this space. 

“To remind me. Who I belong to.” Sherlock breathes out, fluttering his eyelashes in a way that he knows makes John absolutely insane with want. “You haven’t. Not since we - since we talked almost a month ago. And I _want_ it. I want all those things we talked about."

"I thought we could - kind of - ease in." John clears his throat. He knows he's been hesitant, knows Sherlock's been silently patient. "I know we haven't tried anything...new. I just thought we should let the dust settle before we introduced something...Like what we talked about."

Sherlock's voice goes flat. "You still have reservations."

"We've been working so well since - the fight. Haven't we? You've seemed happy, I'm happy."

"You're avoiding the question, John." 

John bites into his bottom lip, rocks it back and forth between his teeth. "Yeah. I guess I am."

"You said you wanted those things. Were you lying?"

"Sherlock..."

"Were you?" 

"No. I wasn't lying."

"Well, what's the problem, then?"

John closes his eyes, shakes his head. "I can't...I don't know. I don't know, honestly."

"You have no problem ordering me about. You have no problem having me do all the chores. You have no hesitation about laying claim to me, possessing me. I wear your dog tags all day, we have scars on our bodies from cutting into each other. You have no reservations about telling me to hurry up and clean the sitting room before you get home or else I'll be in for it. You've spanked me and corrected me dozens of times. Because we both want those things. Because we've talked about it and agreed upon it. How is this any different?"

"I don't know. It's not." 

"I don't know why you're holding back from me. We've talked about this, more than once. We're married. We love each other. I'm not afraid of you." Sherlock puts his hands on either side of John's head, ducks his head down so they're eye to eye. "Were you afraid of me last night?"

"No. Well, maybe a little. But in a good way." John smirks a little, and Sherlock grins back, his tongue darting out between his teeth.

"Yet I had you pinned against a wall with my hand over your mouth. Why weren't you afraid?"

"Because you love me, and you wouldn't hurt me." The answer is immediate and intuitive. 

"Exactly."

"What?"

"You understand now how I feel. I trust you. Implicitly. You need to trust yourself, John."

"Sherlock Holmes. Was last night about teaching me a _lesson_?"

Sherlock's smile glimmers into something predatory. "Well, not entirely...Did it work?"

John laughs, full to bursting with affection for this absolutely infuriating fool he's married. He surges forward and captures Sherlock's mouth in a fierce kiss. "Yes, you bloody great dickhead. It worked. Point made. I'm sorry I've been holding back. I won't anymore. I promise."

Sherlock smiles against John's mouth, shimmies closer and wraps his arms around John's neck. "When, then?"

John brushes Sherlock's hair out of his eyes, kisses his eyelids and then his mouth, put his lips to Sherlock's ear and whispers, "When you least expect it."

Sherlock shivers, murmurs, "Good."

***

When Sherlock least expects it turns out to be a rainy Saturday morning, after they've just returned to the flat with takeaway coffees following a cosy breakfast at Speedy's. Sherlock immediately begins tidying up the sitting room from the night before as John settles in his chair. John watches him, the sinewy twist of his hips in a rare pair of jeans, his hair curlier than usual from the humidity, as he takes sips of his coffee in between stacking newspapers and winding up power cords. 

"Leave the tidying, you beautiful boy. Come over here."

Sherlock isn't in his subspace yet, isn't immediately obedient as he would be there. "Let me just clear off the sofa, and -"

Normally John would let it go, agree that he can finish the tidying first, but not today. Today he is in control, and Sherlock will do as he's bid. He drops his voice into the tone he used in the army when he had a difficult man to whip into shape. "Sherlock. I told you to leave it. Do as you're told, and _come over here_."

A current of pleasure courses down John's spine, watching Sherlock straighten up slowly and drop the papers in his hand to the sofa without a second thought. He knows that tone of John's voice, and it allows for no argument. He turns and the first pink blush of arousal is already high on his cheeks, set off by wispy damp tendrils against his pale skin. His eyes are just slightly less sharply inquisitive than they usually are, his long black lashes fluttering beautifully. "Yes, John."

"Good boy." John shifts in his chair, takes a casual sip of his coffee as Sherlock drifts across the room and stands in front of him. Sherlock looks at him, and waits for John's next direction, eagerly pliant. "On your knees."

Sherlock immediately drops to the floor with a quiet thunk and doesn't move, unsure whether he's allowed to touch John yet. He folds his hands behind his back and watches John patiently.

"What a good boy. Look how well you're behaving already." John coos at him, watching Sherlock's neck redden, his lips part. "It's alright, you can come here to me."

Sherlock shuffles forward awkwardly on his knees, and John has a flash of himself last week, struggling to spread his knees as Sherlock wanted him to, while his jeans were bunched tightly around his ankles. The exquisite shame of that, the desperate need to please. Sherlock really was brilliant in orchestrating that to show John how it feels, the complicated nature of being a sub, how profoundly satisfying it can be to feel entirely at someone else's whim. 

Sherlock lays his head against John's stomach with a soft hum, rubbing his cheek against the soft cotton of his tee shirt. John drops one hand to his head, playing lazily with Sherlock's hair. "Today is not going to be about punishing you, understand? This is because we both want it. It's not because you've done anything wrong. Tell me you understand that."

"I understand, John."

"Because I'm going to hit you, and hurt you, today. Things we haven't done before. And it's not a punishment."

Sherlock nods. "I understand that."

"And no more of this Daddy business, alright? This is who we are, all the time. I can't accept this part of myself if you're calling me a different name while we're doing it. It's John who loves you, and takes care of you, and it's also John who spanks you and keeps you in line and who you obey. So. No more Daddy. That's done." John kneads at the back of Sherlock's neck, the words falling so easily from his lips. Now that they're here, in this space together, it's so natural. He's been resisting for so long, and there was never any need. This is who they are together just as much as any other incarnation of themselves. 

"Yes, John." Sherlock breathes out, damp against John's stomach. 

"You sound relieved."

Sherlock doesn't say anything.

"You're allowed to answer. I'll tell you if you're not." 

Sherlock's arms slot tighter against John's thighs, and he rubs his head up into John's chest like a cat. "I _am_ relieved. That you're finally accepting this. Us."

"I am too." It aches, the fondness, the love, the intensity of how much love he has for this perfect, brilliant, needy, damaged man between his thighs. "You. You did that. You clever, perfect boy. You gave me this, you opened my eyes. I love you."

John pulls Sherlock up by his hair, crushing their mouths together in a ferocious kiss. Sherlock moans, biting at John's mouth and crawling up the chair until he's practically in John's lap. John yanks him backwards, eliciting a harsh gasp from Sherlock, whose eyes are now watering. 

"That's enough. Back on your knees." 

"Yes, John." Sherlock scrambles backwards, sliding back onto the floor and coming to his knees at John's feet.

"Spine straight. Put your knees together. Good boy." John sits back and crosses his legs, left ankle over right knee. "Safeword?"

"Vanilla." Sherlock's mouth twitches, but he holds it back and looks down at the floor.

"You're allowed to smile, Sherlock." John sips his coffee, feeling more at ease than he has in a very long time. He excels at this, clearing the Great Brain of clutter, focusing it on himself, on the transport, on being a good boy. It's focus for John, too, the world outside themselves falling away so easily. Nothing exists right now except Sherlock and John, in this moment together. There could be an apocalypse, and as long as Baker Street was still standing, John wouldn't notice.

"Thank you." Sherlock smiles, still looking at his knees, his hands clasped at the small of his back.

"I know you think vanilla is a funny safeword, but that's important. If you need me to stop, it needs to be something we'll both recognise as out of the moment we're in, okay?"

"I won't need you to stop."

"Sherlock. Yes, you might. And if you do, you'll use that safeword and we'll stop, or we will never do this again, do you hear me?" 

"Yes, John."

"Good. Now go in our room and take off your clothes and fold them up, and get the parcel on top of the dresser and bring it back here. You have two minutes." As Sherlock jumps up and rushes off to the bedroom to obey, John gets up and locks both doors to the flat. It won't do to have Mrs Hudson walking in during this. They really should put a bed in his old room, away from Mrs Hudson's hearing. 

He's sitting in his chair again when Sherlock returns, nude and hard and flushed from hips to ears, the wrapped parcel in his hands. He drops to his knees in front of John and offers him the box.

"No, darling. That's for you." The box has been there for two days. John knows Sherlock's been absolutely quivering with curiosity about it, but he hasn't said a word.  

"For me?"

"Yes, sweetheart. Open it."

Sherlock sits back on his feet, and puts the parcel on the floor in front of him, carefully undoing the ribbon. He's so wantonly beautiful. His cock standing up hard and crimson against his pale stomach, those wicked lips already puffy from arousal alone, carefully opening his present like it's Christmas morning. John feels his own face going hot. 

Sherlock unfolds the cardboard flaps, peers into the box and tilts his head to the side. Smiles slow and looks up at John, his eyes liquid and black, thrumming with heat. 

"Well, go on. Take it out."

"Oh, John. It's. It's _beautiful_." Sherlock lifts up a forest green double strap collar, butter soft leather, and suede lined, a large silver ring shining at the center. He strokes it with his fingertips, turns it and holds it up against the light, examining it from every angle.

"I know we didn't discuss this, but I thought you would like it."

"I do, I do." Sherlock's voice has gone up an octave, excitement dancing in his eyes.

"I thought the colour would set off your eyes. I've always thought you look especially gorgeous in green."

"It's perfect. When?" Sherlock breathes, half looking at John, but also now running his nose along the edge of the collar, scenting the leather.

"This week. There's a shop in Vauxhall. They make them there. I had it made just for you, darling."

"Put it on me?" Sherlock holds it up to John, waiting for him to take it. 

"Of course. Come here, lovely." John finds he's suddenly feeling like something incredibly formal is happening between them. This feels as profound as their wedding day, as meaningful and important as the day they entrusted each other with opening the other's skin, exchanging their blood. This is a moment they can never take back, a moment that binds them together even more immutably. 

Sherlock's skin is blood hot under John's hands, his eyes fixed intently on John's face as he holds himself perfectly still. John slips his dog tags over Sherlock's head and sets them on the side table. He does up the buckle of the collar, spins it round Sherlock's neck gently so the ring is at his throat. He's a vision. A porcelain doll. The dark green against his pale skin, his black curls brushing the top, make him look like a debauched Victorian painting. 

John runs his fingers around the inside to make sure it's not too tight, lingering his touch between the soft suede and Sherlock's thumping pulse. He never in his life expected he would be placing a collar on anyone, but it's entirely natural, an outward expression of who they are. Not any different than the scars on John's arms, nor the tattoo inked with Sherlock's blood.

They _belong_ to each other.

"You take my breath away like this." John bends forward and presses a soft kiss on Sherlock's neck just above the collar. "What do you think, sweetheart?"

Sherlock reaches up with exploring fingers, the expression on his face rapt and glowing. "May I? Go look at it?"

"Yes, love. I'll come with you."

They make their way into the bedroom, where Sherlock stands in front of the full length mirror, watching himself touching the collar, stroking his index finger over the ring. John can't stand not to touch him. He presses himself fully clothed against Sherlock's bare back, caresses his hips and his belly, mouths at his shoulder. Sherlock shivers under John's hands. John watches in the mirror as his eyes fall shut. John lets his hand wander down to Sherlock's now half hard prick, takes him in hand as he kisses across his shoulder blades. Sherlock sucks in a loud breath and arches into John's hand.

"You like your present, pet?" John strokes him lazily, not trying to bring him off, just enjoying the slide of Sherlock's velvety foreskin in his grasp.

"Yes, John. Thank you." Sherlock's voice trembles, his head dropping back against John's. "How did you know I would - ?"

"Educated guess. I do know you fairly well." John stretches up, kisses under Sherlock's hair, keeps up his easy pace stroking him. "Shall we put it to use?"

Sherlock nods, now moaning softly and pumping his hips. Their eyes lock in the mirror. 

The elemental in John awakens when they're in the sub/dom space together. He is nothing but sensation, want, hunger. All he craves is the satisfaction of making Sherlock whine and plead, thrash and moan and _come_. A shudder runs through him, looking at their reflections; Sherlock naked and collared, writhing in John's arms, John fully clothed and in control, his gaze steady as he looks back at himself. Sherlock's cock dark and primal, rutting against John's pale fingers. It's the most deliciously filthy thing he's ever seen.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous like this. My pet. My perfect creature. I should have put you in a collar years ago." John circles his thumb in the wetness at the head of Sherlock's cock, making him whimper. His thighs are shaking already. "The collar is for both of us. You wear it when one of us wants this, and no other time."

John abruptly releases Sherlock, who actually stumbles forward a few steps from the sudden lack of support. John puts out his hand to steady him and Sherlock takes it, looking at him with wide worried eyes. 

"You haven't done anything wrong, pet. Just time to begin. Get on the bed." 

Sherlock obeys immediately, laying down in the center of the bed spread eagle, his cock laying hot and gorgeous against his heaving belly. His eyes fall shut again.

"Eyes open. You'll watch unless I tell you you don't have to, understand?"

Sherlock's eyes fly open. "Yes, John."

God, this is intoxicating, and they haven't even really started yet. Sherlock entirely compliant, more than he's ever been before, desperate for John's touch, for his approval, his soft words. Because they have boundaries now, and within those boundaries they can truly let go, as they've never done before. John shivers, his jeans increasingly constricting. He breathes slow and deep, Sherlock's eyes on him the entire time. 

He retrieves the leather bindings they've used just a few times before, and also a new braided leather rope with a latch to hook into the ring at Sherlock's throat. Sherlock automatically spreads his arms against the headboard as John approaches, putting himself in position for the wrist cuffs. 

"You're so good, baby. Doing exactly what you think I want you to do. But we're not doing that today. Put your arms down." John kneels on the mattress and sets the cuffs and the rope next to him. 

There's a flicker of confusion in Sherlock's eyes, but he does as he's bid and lays his arms back down at his sides. John picks up Sherlock's right hand, kisses it softly, kisses over his wrist, to the crease of his elbow, over the swell of his bicep. Sets his chin on Sherlock's shoulder, and murmurs, "You are exquisite. You're even more exquisite when you're desperate for my cock, like you are right now. You're desperate for me to fuck you, aren't you?"

Sherlock whispers hoarsely, "Yes. Please."

"Please, what, Sherlock? Ask me for it, _beg me_ , like the slut you are."

Sherlock's reaction to the sudden name calling, whispered softly in his ear like an endearment, is extreme. He whines low down in his throat and his cock jumps, a bead of precome leaking out as his shifts his hips frantically. He manages to gasp out, "Please fuck me. _Please_."

"That's how you ask, slut." John has to hold back his own thrill as the sound of the word reverberates through his entire body, the power of using it making his head light. He swallows and tries to focus his own desire on what he's going to give to Sherlock, not just the ache of desire in his own belly. 

"Be still." Sherlock arches up once more in silent entreaty, but lets his hips fall back on the bed and watches as John picks up the braided rope. He secures it to the ring at Sherlock's throat and gives a tug. Sherlock's mouth opens, goosebumps erupting cross his chest and shoulders. "Oh, you like that. God, no one would believe me if I told them how you like to be collared and humiliated and called a dirty whore. This is all just for me. No one else has ever seen you this way."

"No, John." Sherlock rasps, licking his lips.

"It wasn't a question." John yanks on the lead, jerking Sherlock's head to the side just enough to make him gasp against the brief moment of constricted air flow. "Turn over. Hands behind your back."

Sherlock turns and puts his fists in the small of his back. John straddles his calves, cuffs dangling from his right hand, and is caught by the enormity of them, of this, of how implicitly and unquestioningly they trust each other. Other people don't have this, not this level of love and trust. He runs his fingertip over the bee tattoo at the crest of Sherlock's hip, a twin to the one Sherlock insisted go on John's arse, and leans over and presses his lips to it. "Mine." He whispers. Sherlock sighs and hums, wriggles his hips and his shoulders as John continues to place small kisses all over his back. 

"Your back is beautiful. Your trapezius muscle is absolutely perfectly shaped. A specimen. Example of human anatomy in it's highest form." He licks at the writhing muscle, contracted from Sherlock's hands held behind him, nips at Sherlock's neck. "Your thoracic vertebrae, straight and even. Like a Grecian statue." Kisses each vertebra until he reaches Sherlock's fists. His arms are starting to shake with the effort of holding them in the small of his back. "Oh, lovely. It's hard to hold still like that, isn't it? Here, I'll help you."

John buckles the cuffs on each wrist gently, checks to ensure they're not tight enough to restrict circulation, but tight enough Sherlock's hands won't slip out. "Okay?"

"Yes." Sherlock already looks transcendent, even in the awkward position John's got him twisted into. His right cheek is pressed into the sheets with his arms cuffed together behind his back, his eyes wide and glassy, mouth parted, his tongue running along his lips repeatedly. John's never seen him quite like this. So wholly submitted to John's control.

"Good." John runs his hands all over Sherlock's smooth back and the backs of his legs, then kneels up and slides off the end of the bed to finally remove his own clothes. 

He strips quickly and leaves the clothes on the floor, climbs back on the bed between Sherlock's spread legs. The heat radiating off of his skin is palpable. "You're so turned on, I can _feel_ it. I can feel how badly you want everything I'm going to do to you. God, you're amazing. What a little tart. So desperate for it."

Sherlock says nothing, but squirms on the sheets, twisting them enough that one corner pops free of the mattress. His hair is wild around his face, a sweaty halo. "My fallen angel," John hums, almost to himself, sliding his hand up the insides of Sherlock's thighs and pinching the tender skin hard enough to make Sherlock cry out. 

John reaches into the bedside drawer for the lube and another new toy he's been keeping for today. He sets them next to him, and slaps over where he just pinched. "Up on your knees. That's it, my sweet little whore. Look how well you obey me."

Sherlock rocks up on his knees as well as he can with his arms bound, moans and pushes his arse back. John gives him a hard slap across his left cheek, leaving a deep pink handprint and making Sherlock whimper and close his eyes. "Don't be greedy. You'll get fucked good and hard soon enough. And I told you to keep your eyes open."

"Yes, John. I'm sorry. That just felt so good." Sherlock's voice barely more than a whisper as he drags his eyes open and sways to the right, his balance thrown off without the use of his arms. John grabs his hip to hold him upright and rakes his nails purposefully across the thin skin stretched over Sherlock's bone. Sherlock leans into the touch and groans.

"Oh god, you're such a pain slut. You'll get more of that soon enough, too. Now, this is going to feel cold, and hard, but you can handle it." John picks up the toy and slicks it, consciously ignoring his own throbbing erection and reaching between Sherlock's legs with his other hand to cradle his testicles and press the pad of his thumb into his perineum. His shoulders tighten, a fevered shiver running through him as he palms them,  "Christ, you're full. So heavy for me, baby."

Sherlock's beyond speech. All he can do is pant and whine, his fingernails curling into his palms. 

John kneads at his testicles, pushing them up against his body and letting them fall back heavy into his palm until Sherlock's knees start to slide apart, his body going boneless under John's hands. He won't be able to stay in this position much longer. John skids his hand over the curve of Sherlock's cheek and runs the slick end of the toy into the crease of his arse. Sherlock starts at the cool hard glass against him, his head snapping round as much it can, looking questioningly down the side of his body at John.

"This is going to feel different. It's not a plug, it's not narrow at the end. This will stretch you, get you ready for me. It'll hurt a bit, but you'll like that, won't you, my sweet slut?" Sherlock nods frantically. John teases the tip inside, and Sherlock tenses. John immediately changes his tone, dropping out of the more commanding octaves into his normal voice. "Sherlock. You still okay?"

"Ye-yes, John." He gasps through the words, bites at his lip.

"Alright then. I'm going to keep going." John eases the clear glass stretcher into him, the transparent flared base allowing him to see how Sherlock's spread wide open around it, the skin red. The visual is dizzyingly arousing, as Sherlock keens and clenches his arse. John runs a fingertip over the smooth cool glass, tracing the outline of Sherlock's hole around the toy. "Jesus Christ, baby. I'm going to keep this in you all the time. I'll come in you and plug you back up, keep you open for me until I'm ready to fuck you again. How would you like that?"

John's voice comes out in a harsh whisper, his face burning. He can't believe the things he's saying, the things he's thinking. He's thought them before, if he's honest, but in startling unwelcome bursts. Always pushed them shamefacedly away, feeling there was something wrong with him. Now he realises, as Sherlock grinds back, moaning and dripping precome all over the sheets, that there is absolutely nothing wrong with either of them. They both love this, want it, and it's nothing they would ever do with anyone else. This is just for them, another expression of the bond that neither of them has the words to describe. Far from having to be ashamed of it, it's something precious and beautiful. Sacred.

"I would like that, John." Sherlock's voice quivering, muffled against the sheets, his knees sliding ever farther apart, even as he struggles to stay up.

John runs his fingers over the base of the toy again, breathing hard, his lips dry. He wants so much right now he's having a hard time focusing. He slides his hands around and pulls Sherlock's hips down. "Go ahead and lie down."

Sherlock collapses heavily onto the bed, the relief evident in his face. His legs are trembling. 

John straddles Sherlock's thighs, nudges them together so he can sit on them. Sherlock quakes at the feeling of John's testicles resting against his skin, and John grins in satisfaction, rubs his hips in a circle as he reaches up to take hold of the braided rope. He tugs on it, pulling the collar taut against Sherlock's throat. Sherlock gasps and bends back, his spine curving up as his shoulders leave the bed.  

"I'm going to unbuckle your hands now. You can hold on to the bed or whatever you need to." John gently unbuckles the cuffs and rubs his hands up Sherlock's arms as they fall limply to his sides. 

The first smack echos startlingly loudly in the room, followed quickly by Sherlock's surprised whimper. His arms, weak from being bent behind him, shift slowly up the bed, fingers scrabbling at the headboard as John lands the second smack against Sherlock's left shoulder blade. Sherlock's a mess of groaning and crying already, tears leaking down over the bridge of his nose. His eyes are shut, and John doesn't remind him to open them.

"Baby? You okay? Too much?" John pauses, brushes Sherlock's hair back so he can clearly see his expression.

"No-no. It's so good. I feel like...it's like I'm floating. I've never felt like this...Please don't stop." 

"You safeword if you need to, understand?" John smoothes Sherlock's sweaty hair, wipes the tears from his nose.

"Yes, I know, I know. Please go on. Please. Hit me, please. Please, I want it." Sherlock's blubbering, begging. The sound of it is magnificent, stoking the fire of need in John's lower belly, his cock twitching. He resists the instinct to touch himself, instead lands a harder blow than before on the curve where back meets hip, and Sherlock sobs louder, grinds his cock into the bed and grabs desperately at the sheets. 

"Christ, you're a fucking vision, you know that?" John husks out, slapping Sherlock's back and arse until his own palm is tingling and half numb, until there's not a single patch of unmarked skin beneath him. "That pale skin pinks up like a ripe peach when I hit you. Listen to you, crying and begging for it, fucking yourself against the mattress like a cheap slut. Don't you dare come, or I'll stop. You won't get anything else today."

"I won't. I won't come, I promise." Sherlock snivels, stilling the roll of his hips and sobbing quietly as John runs his hands all over Sherlock's  reddened skin. 

"That's my good boy." John kisses his shoulder and his hair, gives the lead a gentle tug as he sits up. "Turn over for me."

Sherlock twists and rolls between John's legs, winces as his tingling skin brushes against the bedding. Rivulets of tears cover his face, striations from the sheets pressed into his cheek. His eyes are red rimmed, soft and docile. John leans over and kisses him tenderly, touching the very tip of his tongue to Sherlock's upper lip. "Ready for a bit more?"

Sherlock sniffles and nods, reaches up tentatively to touch John's face. John allows him a moment of gentle kisses as Sherlock plays with the short hairs around John's ears. He nudges at Sherlock's nose with his own and sits up. "Give me your hands again."

Sherlock obediently holds his hands together at his navel, and John finds the cuffs where they've fallen next to the bed. He buckles them around Sherlock's wrists, tighter than before, and pushes his hands above his head. John’s own head is buzzing, very much like what he remembers getting stoned feels like. The longer they're in this scene, the more altered his state of consciousness becomes. Every skin cell on his body is tingling. 

He wants to hit Sherlock again, to watch his handprints emerge on Sherlock's skin like pictures on developing film. He wants to feel Sherlock shaking under him, hear him crying. 

Sherlock is waiting for it. His eyes watchful and eager, Adam's apple moving as he swallows hard in anticipation.

John lands the first smack over Sherlock's left nipple, the second at the soft skin above his hip. Sherlock grabs at the headboard with his fingers and John is rapt, watching as the tears resume, rolling hot down Sherlock's temples and into his hair. He slaps him again and again until Sherlock's front is as reddened as his back. Until Sherlock's sobbing softly with his eyes shut and his mouth trembling. Until John's own stinging hand and aching arm evidence how long he's been at this. 

"Okay, baby. Okay. That's enough for now, for our first time with this. All done now." John leans over him, brushing his lips so gently over Sherlock's slap-reddened stomach. He darts his tongue out soft and soothing, lapping at the ridges of his ribs, over his nipples and along his sternum. He brings Sherlock's bound wrists to his mouth and kisses them, too. 

Sherlock arches his hips up, his cock bobbing against his stomach, and moans, "Please. _Please, John_."

"I know. Me too." The amount of love and tenderness surging through him is almost overpowering his want. Almost. He runs his hands down Sherlock's sides, and pulls at his hips. "Spread your legs for me."

Sherlock's legs fall open, and John rocks back to kneel between them. "God, look at you. You need to come so badly, don't you?" Sherlock's cock is so hard and aching it's nearly purple, his testicles hanging heavy between his sweaty thighs, his entire body shivering with need - he looks stunning and profane.

Beyond words, Sherlock can't respond. He whines something incoherent, his head lolling insensibly against the mattress.

"Alright, alright. Shhhh. Put your knees up, that's right. Good job." John eases the stretcher out of him, and replaces it with his index and middle fingers and finds Sherlock’s prostate, eliciting from him a keening sob that sounds a bit like _please_. "God, Sherlock. You are so wide open for me. That's perfect, love."

John gropes for the lube, buried in tangled sheets, fills his palm with it and first slicks himself,  then closes his hand around Sherlock's terribly neglected cock. Sherlock arcs shakily up off the bed, thighs rigid, shouting hoarsely and clutching at John's hips. John pumps him firmly, pulling his foreskin over the head and back, thumbing through the copious precome slick at the head. Sherlock fucks up hard into John's fist, writhing and groaning as he gets close to orgasm after just a few strokes. 

"No." John lets go of his cock and Sherlock mewls in frustration. "You'll come when I'm inside you. Not before."

" _Please_."

"Shhh, okay, I know, baby." John slithers forward, dips his head and licks at the crease between Sherlock's thigh and hip, the musky scent of arousal filling his nostrils. Sherlock tastes like sweat and pheromones, dark and intoxicating. John pushes at the backs of Sherlock's thighs, bends his legs back until he's spread obscenely wide, with his knees at his shoulders. John runs his hands all the way from the perfect arch of Sherlock's pointed feet to the luscious soft swell of his hip. He can hardly believe this incredible person belongs to him. "Christ."

Sherlock is sobbing quietly, rolling his head from side to side. His knuckles are white, fingernails scraping into the headboard. 

Neither of them can take this anymore. John teases just for a second, rubbing the slicked head of his cock around the edge of Sherlock's stretched hole before he rocks forward and thrusts home hard and fast. Sherlock's eyes and mouth fly open, a ragged moan escaping his cracked lips. John grinds deeper into him, moves his hands to grip him by the waist. He's dizzy already from endorphins. 

"Oh fuck, fuck, you feel so good - I want to fuck you _forever_." John allows Sherlock to wrap his legs around John's back, and he sits on his heels, pulling Sherlock's arse up onto his thighs. The angle changes and John can actually feel the bump of Sherlock's prostate against the head of his cock. He thrusts up hard, fingers clawing at  Sherlock's waist. "I am going to make you come so hard, just from this. I'm not going to touch you."

"John. Please." Sherlock makes a move to take his cock in his bound together hands, and John lands a brutal smack against the bony part of Sherlock's hip. He lets out a quiet little mewl of acquiensce and  quickly puts his arms back above his head. 

"Don't you dare try that again." John pinches in the center of the handprint he just left, before moving his hand back to Sherlock's waist and resuming the steady pumping of his hips. "Just from me fucking you. You come like this or not at all." 

"Yes, John, I'm sorry." Sherlock's hair is wet, from sweat and tears both, plastered to the sides of his face. 

All of existence, time, space, everything, has coalesced down to this. John's head is deliciously heavy, his mind uncluttered. There is nothing outside of his cock buried deep inside this beautiful creature laid out before him, the sound of their breath, their high pitched gasps, the smell of their sweat mingling with fresh leather and the tang of metal fittings. Nothing outside of his fingers trying to keep a grip on Sherlock's sweat slicked skin while he thrusts into him. 

John's getting so close, his arse tightening, thighs shaking so violently he can hardly keep up his rhythm. His stomach muscles begin to contract, a rush of endorphins making his scalp tingle and his shoulders quake. Sherlock has to come first, while John's still hot and hard inside him.

"Fuck, Sherlock, come on. _I want it_. I want you to come for me." John fucks him harder, breathless and nearly overcome with his own pleasure, "I know you want to, you've been begging for it. Give it to me."

"Harder." Sherlock pants, his chest and neck a violent shade of mottled red, his legs locked almost painfully tight around John's ribs. " _Harder_ , John."

"God, you fucking little slut. You want it hard, you'll get it so hard I'll give you fucking bruises." John drops his hands to the mattress and leans forward to give himself some leverage. He curls one hand around the braided lead and yanks hard enough to pull the collar taut against Sherlock's throat. Sherlock throws his bound wrists over John's head and claws at the back of his neck as John drives into him.

"Yes, _god_ , right there - oh, _John_ , John - yes, _oh fuck, yes_ -" Sherlock's exclamations dissolve into a long gasping cry as he spills hot between them, coming so forcefully it spatters all over John's throat and chin.

The spasming of Sherlock's inner muscles around his prick is too much, and John can't hold it back anymore, allowing the thunderous crash of orgasm to take him. He convulses again and again, his stomach flooding with heat, the shivery sensation of cool electricity exploding through his nerve endings. He hears _Sherlock, Sherlock_ in the distance, but it can't be him, because he can't even feel his mouth moving. His face is numb, scalp sizzling with static, his brain completely offline.

Finally his muscles are no longer out of his control, except for a sudden jerk of aftershocks now and then. He breathes deep, supported on shaking arms, and looks down at Sherlock, who's covered in come and sweat and tears, and looks utterly blissful. 

The grin that splits John's face is alight with love and giddiness. "You okay?"

"Hnnngh." Sherlock manages, his face slack, eyes shut. 

John pushes back and slips out of him, gently lowers Sherlock's legs to the bed. He unbuckles the cuffs and rubs at Sherlock's wrists, unclasps the collar and sets all of the bindings carefully in the bedside drawer. He lays down beside Sherlock and gathers him into his arms. Sherlock nestles against him with a sigh. John smoothes his sweaty hair and kisses his forehead. "Everything you wanted, baby?"

"Mmm." Sherlock hums an affirmative, burrows more snugly against John's chest.

"Good. Me, too." They lie there until the come on John's neck starts to dry uncomfortably and their sweat becomes sticky. 

John nudges Sherlock's face with his nose. "I'll be right back, okay? I'm going to start us a shower."

Sherlock grabs at him as he goes to stand up, and he plants a firm kiss on Sherlock's mouth. "Baby, I'm not going anywhere. Just right in the loo, right next door. I will be right back. Two minutes."

Sherlock rolls on his side, curls up with John's pillow in his arms. 

*** 

John pulls them both into a long warm shower. Sherlock is as loose limbed as a sleeping child. John lets Sherlock use him for support, draping his long body over John's small frame while John washes him gently with a soapy cloth and then wraps him in a clean towel.

"You need something for your skin, love. It'll feel a little cold." John pulls a brown bottle of aloe juice from from bathroom cupboard and swabs it all over Sherlock's torso with cotton balls. Sherlock is silent through it all, just occasionally sighing and touching John's face wonderingly. 

After he's soothed Sherlock's angry skin, he sits Sherlock - still endorphin drenched and sleepy - on the chair in their bedroom while he strips the bed and puts on fresh sheets. Then he helps Sherlock into one of his own soft, well worn Army tee shirts and a pair of grey sweatpants and bundles him into the newly made bed.

John pulls on his blue striped pyjama pants - Sherlock's favourites - and kneels by the side of the bed. "Sherlock?" He kisses his cheek and brushes his still damp hair away from his brow. "You with me, sweetheart?"

Sherlock nods, his eyes drifting open with an expression of absolute adoration. "Yes, John."

"There's my boy." John kisses the end of his nose, his chest constricted with affection, with love, with all the emotions that he's always tried so hard to control. He swallows. "You and I both need some liquids, and some calories. I'm going to go fix us a snack, alright? I'll be just in the kitchen if you need me."

"Alright, John." Sherlock murmurs drowsily, his smile soft and happy. 

John cuts cheese into small cubes, slices a banana, and pours tall tumblers of ice water. He sets it all on a tray and carries it into the bedroom, where Sherlock is sprawled across most of the bed, snoring in that ridiculously delicate way he does. 

John sets the tray on the bed and carefully sits crosslegged next to Sherlock. He strokes his face for a moment, and Sherlock snuffles and turns his mouth toward John's hand, but doesn't open his eyes. 

"Sherlock. Wake up, pet, you need to eat." John drags him up until he's leaning against John's chest. "Come on, Sherlock."

Sherlock wakes up enough, after some nudging, to accept the bites of cheese and banana that John slips between his lips. John makes him drink half a tumbler of water, and then sets the tray on the floor. They shift down until they're both lying flat, and Sherlock adheres himself to John's side, head on John's bare chest. He throws an arm over John's hips and tucks his hand down into the waistband of his pyjamas.

John's feeling pleasantly drowsy himself now. He presses a few soft kisses to the top of Sherlock's head and then closes his eyes. Just as he's beginning to drift off, Sherlock's deep voice rumbles against his chest. 

"I love you, John. No one else could ever take care of me the way you do." Sherlock nuzzles his face into John's pectoral, brushes his lips over his skin. 

"I feel the same. You're my one and only, sweetheart." Feeling calmer than he has in perhaps his entire life, John understands now what they've been working towards all these months. Balance. Equilibrium. Pain and pleasure in equal measure. The release they both need within the carefully constructed boundaries of this life they've made together. This is who they are. This is who John is. Without fear, and without reservation.  

  
  


End file.
